


Not that Kind of Man

by cl2y



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Bi Blackwall, But Nothing Smutty and Involving a Werewolf, F/M, Follows my Canon Choices in Inquisition, Implied/Referenced Original Character Death(s), Including: Dorian/Bull. M!Warden/Zevran. M!Inquisitor/OFC. M!Hawke/Anders. Some OC/OC. Etc., M/M, Minor Background Relationships, Minor Violence, Multi, Mutual Pining, Not Beta Read, Slow Burn, Strangers to Lovers, Werewolf
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-21
Updated: 2018-07-05
Packaged: 2018-08-10 01:14:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 48
Words: 347,923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7824436
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cl2y/pseuds/cl2y
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With the illusion of Ser Blackwall shattered, ex-Captain Thom Rainier is forced into the holding cells of Val Royeaux's prison to await whatever fate may come. Knowing that now his crimes were broadcast he can never go back to the man he pretended to be, and he can only pray for an absolution that he doesn't deserve. His cell mate, self-titled No One, is a strange man who seems just as weighted by guilt as he is, and ever disillusioned in his ways. But there is something underneath, deep down inside No One where all his secrets lay, that Thom can see a reflection of himself.</p><p>No One is a private man, publicising his own lies to protect himself from others ever knowing who he truly was. Suffering from a werewolf affliction seventeen years ago, that was only partially healed in recent years by an unknown benefactor, has led him from one miserable life into another. Val Royeaux was supposed to be the end of things, but cravenly he had stepped from the light and back behind much too familiar iron bars, and had met a man in there who offered him a third life to live.</p><p>[18.07.17] Edit: I update a little under biweekly.</p><p>[19.07.18] Edit: Chapter 49 will be late (again, oops) because I've been so busy this past week.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Good Men

**Author's Note:**

> "Methinks you are my glass, and not my brother: I see by you I am a foul-faced youth."
> 
> > Credit to AutopsyTurvy and Zorazen for the Thedosian Days of the Week, a well thought out way of fleshing out the Dragon Age world that Bioware skipped over; which can be found here: http://archiveofourown.org/works/7115185/chapters/16162420
> 
> > Credit to Leliaanaa for Thedosian Travelling Times, a brilliantly mapped out idea about how long it takes to move across Thedas, even dependant on how people are travelling; which can be found here: http://leliaanaa.tumblr.com/post/141304688410/
> 
> > Credit to Noseforahtwo and the lovely (and heartbreaking) Gordon Blackwall/Thom Rainier fanfiction which I reference in a later chapter. It's called Three Weeks to Weisshaupt (and it is so good) and it can be found here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4751477/chapters/10862057
> 
> \-------
> 
> Character profiles and images can be found here; http://cl2y.tumblr.com/ntkom-things  
> and some select and more indepth profiles can be found here; http://cl2y.tumblr.com/ooooooo  
> (These contain some spoilers!)
> 
> \-------  
> I hope you enjoy this long, long fic. I know I've enjoyed writing it :)

“In the end, I got it, understood what he’d been saying all along.” He sighed. “I wanted praising for it, as if he should be happy that I compensated for murdering his father. No amount of money would bring him back, hire a fancy necromancer, sure, but,” he stopped for a moment, hands waving loosely at the wrist, searching for the right explanation.

“You tried, many people wouldn’t.” His cellmate said.

“My trying got him and another few killed. I should have stayed out of it, niceness isn’t always the best choice.” He said. The other man laughed, a rumble in his gut falling out over bearded lips. “So now, I’m a homeless drunkard, refused by the chantry because I scare children, sitting in a cell because I was ‘disrupting the peace’ or some bollocks.” He added. The pair sat in silence for a few moments more, listening to the sound of his foot tapping against the stone floor and his iron jewellery clinking under his cloaks.

Sharing a prison cell left them little to do besides talk, and talking was not something that he truly excelled at. Maybe when he was younger; but not anymore. Especially when there were no barriers that couldn’t be broken, once you pissed and shat in front of someone all sense of dignity and pride is lost. It let men ask awkward questions that otherwise would be uncouth.

“Why’re you in here?” He yawned, it was the most base question he could ask, an easy starting point in prison. He rolled the last bite of bread in his bowl, it had fallen out a dozen times but he kept starting the game over. Something to keep his hands busy, a game until the guards came to take away their food, and he would be left to boredom once more.

“I killed people, lied about it, took a good man’s name and acted like a good man. Decided it was time to confess.” He scowled.

“Oh? What was the name?” He smiled with closed lips, genuinely intrigued.

“Blackwall.”

“And yours?”

“Rainier.” He spat. He held no love for his own name. Rainier indicated with a wave and nod to ask him for his own name.

“I’m No One. You can call me that if you want.” No One muttered. The man laughed then, something pitiless which rumbled his gut. He sobered his tongue quickly and returned to silence after the guard made a point of tapping his scabbard against the floor. No One stood and took a piss, the sound and acrid smell filled the cage they called home. He stood beside the bars, arms threaded through and himself bent at the waist. If he peered far enough he could see down the hallway into the guard’s room, he made rude gestures with all his fingers when they turned away. A small victory. There was a young man in the cell diagonal from him; he’d figured it was him who’d cried through the night. Large sobs which echoed in the room, it had been stifled once the guard shut him up, but it sounded worse muffled into expensive silks.

“Poor bastard.” No One muttered. “Oi, lad. What’d you do?” He shouted across. The boy flinched at the noise, and turned away so No One couldn’t see his face. “Bastard.” No One repeated, “Nobody has fun in jail.”

“Isn’t that the point?” Rainier scoffed from behind him, he was picking at his nails, flicking small clumps of gathered grime to the floor.

“At least you’ve got a handsome cellmate.” He grunted. No One hadn’t had anyone in weeks, and he’d be in here for a month or more. Disturbing the peace was hardly worth it, but he was a homeless vagrant, so they’d leave him in here longer just because they could.

Rainier snored every night. Deep, grumbling, and loud enough that it echoed off of the two walls they had. The younger man turned all night but the sobbing had stopped. Eventually No One kicked Rainer awake, jabbing his boot into his gut, he stood and adopted a defensive stance. No One stifled his laughter at the man’s response; he was a soldier through and through, his speed would keep him alive though.

“I’m trying to sleep.” No One whispered. It was a lie, for all his tiredness he rarely slept, and when he did he felt exhausted from running through the Fade all night. Men like him had rougher dreams.

“Fuck off.” Rainier spat and lay back down again, sighing as he relaxed. He shuffled on his bench, grumbling as he felt his residual body heat slip from him. The stones down here were too cold.

“Lad.” No One whispered. “Lad what’s your name?” No One waited for a reply but none came, except Rainier’s huff of laughter. _Niceness isn’t always the best choice,_ swept through his mind, he played the villain better anyway.

No One had spent a fortnight in here before a woman came, dressed in shining armour and forced all the guards out. No One sauntered up to the bars and asked if he could pay his way out the old fashioned way, some guards still went for that if the crime was minimal. Rainer apologised and shoved him away from the bars. Addressed her as Inquisitor’s Consort, and was weighed down so heavily by his words that he sank to the floor sobbing.

No One busied himself scratching a pointed rock over the wall, it left white scrapings wherever it moved, and he thought he could see faint lines over the walls. Just single strokes repeated all the way around. He hated that kind of person, the one who counted his days like they had a reason to. There was no natural light in there; the only way to tell if a day has passed is by the shift in the guard. He was thankful for that. But flames were hardly company.

His Worship’s Consort left with long strides eager to leave, and Rainier sighed into his hands as he sat. No One dusted off his hands and slipped the rock into his pocket. _Sharpen that; make it a weapon_ , his mind whispered.

“Seems like you’ve got friends in high places Rainier.” No One laughed.

“Piss off.” He grumbled, adding a quiet “She’s not a friend.”

“She good? At fucking I mean, I’m sure she can-” No One started before he was forced up against the dirty stonework, even dirtier hands grappling his cloaks. He heard his head crack against the wall more than he felt it. He’d have an egg growing there unless his scalp split. “Oh she must be good!” He cackled, wincing as a fist connected with his stomach, then a second and a third before he was dropped to the floor in a heap. “Only three?” He scoffed, usually men carried on when they were winning a fight. Pride filling their boots at besting someone else. Rainier ignored him as he sat on his own bench, rubbing at his knuckles; they hurt more than they should have. “I’ve had men beat me bloody for less.” No One could remember those nights, he could remember the iron fists which grew tired and turned into iron boots. He can remember men dragging him from where he laid his head just to bloody him, he remembers those nights well. Fancies himself more of a man than beast when he swells with pride.

“The guards came back.”

“Like they care. No one grieves for No One.” He huffed.

Silence settled over the pair for three days, only grunting to indicate they were going to piss. No One spent most of his time heckling the boy in the other cell, or chatting with the three men in the cell next to them. They were thieves, waiting to be transferred to a larger jail; this was just a holding cell for a few days.

No One thought they were surprisingly nice. He’d sharpened the small rock quickly and passed it through the bars a few hours before they left. Told them where to stab a man to make him bleed quicker. The men thanked him and smiled as they left. No One had already pried loose a nicer stone anyway, set about sanding that down too. Rainier apologised in the middle of the night, or what he thought was the middle of the night, he was sleeping when he was nudged awake. He cursed the man for that.

“I wanted to apologise.” Rainier whispered. No One simply grumbled and turned over to face the squatting man. “For attacking you, it was warranted but I shouldn’t have. I’m not that man anymore.” No One couldn’t decide what kind of man Rainier wasn’t, the kind who fucked wives or the kind who beat men. He snorted at the thought that Rainier was once both, beat the husband before he fucked the wife. The thought coiled in his belly something awful.

“My cock would prefer the apology more.” No One whispered, curling until he was inches from Rainier. The man reeled back with a breath of laughter.

“I’m not that kind of man anymore either.”

The young boy in the cell diagonal was released, he’d cried as the jailer unlocked the bars. A noble couple came to collect him, and No One heckled the wife enough that the husband tried to enter the cell room to punch him. Rainier scolded him for that, telling him to grow up, the boy had endured enough. No One brushed it off, it was fun. Some people forgot fun existed when they were locked up, everyone became a touch more boring in prison.

He stayed awake that night, just him and Rainier in one cell. Truly the guards could move them, have them in separate cells. He guessed it was easier not to. When he’d first been thrown in there was at least six others in the cells with them. It felt too intimate with just the two of them, the guards kept peeking down the hall to see them too. He wondered how many guards got off at the sight of two desperate men with desperate hands and desperate cocks.

As Rainier began to snore, No One began to fondle himself. He only had spit as some kind of piss up lubricant, but it worked until he was leaking. He closed his eyes and imagined someone pretty with spread legs on top of him, it was better than staring at the lump of man that Rainier was, or the stone ceiling. The scraping of a chair distracted him, so did Rainier’s snores. No One came in his hand eventually, seemed more of a chore than anything, and wiped his come under his bench.

Rainier scolded him for that too when he found out.

A couple of guards hung up a cloth in between the cells. They ignored the questions from Rainier, and No One sat in the corner, hovering over the piss pot facing away. A woman was lead in to the cell opposite, shielded by this curtain, and away from the men’s prying eyes. No One balked at how he’d missed that in favour of hiding his own face. The less men who saw him the better.

“Hey, lady, what’s your name.” No One whispered.

“Tell me yours first.” She said a lilt of something in her voice. No One felt a grin break on his face as he pressed against the bars. She had some kind of fancy smell about her, nothing that the nobles would wear, but the smell was intoxicating.

“I’m No One. That’s what they call me.” He waited for a reply but none came. Everyone always wanted his name, as if  ‘No One’ wasn’t acceptable. She was still there, he heard her piss and shit every so often but he never saw her. Whenever he tried to start a conversation Rainier laughed to fill her silence.

“Your determination is admirable at the least.” He said, smothering his laughter in his food. No One threw his half empty bowl at Rainier then, letting the potato peels scatter across the floor. Food couldn’t fill his gut anyway, it just made him shit.

The curtain was taken down after a week and the woman was gone. They relit the sconce at the end of the room finally, bathing the men in firelight.

“You’ve got black hair.” Rainier said.

“So have you.” No One replied, but shrugged a wave to say ‘sort of’ without mouthing it.

“How do you get it so light? I know blondes who wrap staining leaves in their hair to make it darker, one even had blue hair, always thought she was a bit weird.” He trailed off.

“Same way really.” He shrugged. “The leaves absorb the colour, fucking stinks.” He laughed. Rainier laughed with him this time. How long had they lived together and finally there was some camaraderie between them. No One bit his tongue as Rainier spoke.

“Why do it?”

“I look good, no?” The conversation dwindled as the guards brought in their food. No One turned away to eat as usual, spitting something into his palm before he began, and then eating whatever he’d spat out when he’d finished. Rainier didn’t pry; he thought the man might have false teeth he was embarrassed about.

No One rolled the last piece of bread in his bowl once more, it fell less times, but he still left it as their bowls were collected. The guard always seemed to look a bit annoyed even through the full faced helmet. Guards had to write down every meal that the prisoners ate, and what they didn’t eat. That had been a forced law in Val Royeux after a group had starved themselves and bitten the fingers off of the men who tried to force feed them. No One always ended up with less on his plate than the last time, but he still left a dirty mangled piece of something in his bowl.

“What happened to you?” Rainier asked one night, a certain restlessness had settled upon them. No One knew what day it was, what time it was, he could feel it curling in his gut. He could barely swallow around his tongue for the hairs that seemed to grow in his throat. He should really set about leaving.

“A lot of things.” No One replied.

“You said you tried to help someone.”

“I did. He was killed, so was his family, and many of his friends. Nobody did anything about it, they just,” he threw his arms up dramatically before letting them fall heavily on his chest. “Forgot, and I tried.”

“Tried.” Rainier repeated in confusion.

“Tried to help, tried to forget, tried to try.” No One sighed as he rolled over, made a point of shuffling his cloaks to make a nicer bed from the bench.

“You seem like a good man regardless.” Rainier whispered.

“Good men can do bad things because rich people call them good men.” He spat, so much for amicability. Rainier dropped the subject quickly, shifting himself until he was better suited for sleep, though it did not claim him.

It was a few more days before some guards came with news for Rainier, the small talk they had was forgotten. They’d moved passed it easily, and No One had slept through the day. Fell asleep on the bench and woke up curling into the corner of the room with his mouth open. Someone was coming to collect Rainier, the guards left out the name of who. The man paced in his cell a few times over, panic sinking into the creases on his face.

“You’re not going to die.” No One said, irritated by the constant thrum of footsteps. Rainier stopped to look at him then, and before he could speak No One added “They give washcloths to those who are going to be hanged. Have to make them presentable; don’t want to dirty the ropes.”

Rainier looked aghast at the news, though No One couldn’t decided whether it was the fact that the Orlesian nobility was so tactless, or that No One knew which men were to die on how clean they were.

There were a few more hours of restlessness between the pair before a few Inquisition soldiers came to retrieve him. They were expressionless in their task, waiting for the guard to open the cells. No One pressed his stone into Rainier’s hand before he left, it wasn’t pointed but smooth all over. A perfect sphere of smooth chalk rock, it left powdered dust over his hands. Almost looked like a pearl.

No One had been forced to stand with his hands against the wall and his legs spread, an Orlesian guard making sure he didn’t try to escape by pressing hard on his upper back before his cell was locked. He was the last man in the cells, it would be lonely for him from here on out.

“Wait. Wait,” Rainier struggled, he turned a looked back at No One who was pitifully waving. “Come to Skyhold, join the Inquisition, be a better man.” He said. No One laughed; loud and roaring as Rainier was lead from the room, he felt a sick twist in his gut as he spied a washbowl, steaming with an almost fresh cloth inside. Rainier sulked the entire journey back, he felt guilty for what he had forced the Inquisitor to do, and he felt guilty that he’d left No One back in those cells.

He’d been allowed to bathe in a river; he’d been given some scissors and a looking glass to trim his beard and soap to clean himself with. He felt even sicker, he wondered if No One was still alive, or had they strung him up already? He dispelled the thoughts as worse came through. With every turn of the wheels they grew closer to Skyhold, closer to the Inquisitor. He couldn’t decide if he’d rather face the rope or face him, the man had a way of looking like a disappointed father, he’d seen men piss in their breeches as they were judged.

Rainier was tried, judged, and sentenced. Let free even in the light of all he’d done, he’d made a point of stopping in Leliana’s crook first, asking about how they got him out, and what happened to the man he was in jail with.

“What was his name?” She asked, perhaps she hadn’t been keeping tabs on him then.

“No one, I, he didn’t have a name. He never told me.” He spluttered. “It’s, it’s okay, it’s not important.” Leliana says she’ll try to find out, but there are more pressing matters to attend to.

Leliana returns with bad news over a scout’s lips. She can’t find any report of a man being jailed or set free. There was a report about some guards being murdered on the road, but that was prior to his release. In the arrest accounts Rainier was alone in the cell, though several reports had gone missing in Val Royeux, and the ones that had been delivered to Skyhold were wet and ink stained. He rolls the small chalk pearl in his hand that night, stares at the dull shine in the moonlight. A part of him hopes that the man is faring well, though he doesn’t hold out hope. He doesn’t see baths the same way either.

He spends months milling about, the Inquisitor doesn’t take him on missions anymore. He doesn’t want him anywhere near him.

It’s one early morning when he goes to the private chantry in the gardens on a whim. Something he hasn’t done in years, not a very religious man himself. But as he opens the wooden door he interrupts a brother, crouched and lighting candles at Andraste’s feet.

“Apologies Brother, I didn’t mean to intrude.” Rainier says, he turns to leave, he can’t think of why he came here, it was a silly idea.

“No need. Please, pray, Rainier.” He smiled as he turned around, cut lips stretched closed over his teeth. Rainier almost shit himself at the sight. That same blonde hair, the same smile, the same scars. The only thing that had changed was his cloaks and rags had turned into pristine red and white robes.

“You…” He whispered, his grip held fast to the door handle, squeezing it tight as No One approached him.

“Me? I am No One.” He bowed as he left, his arms folding and hands sliding into the cuffs of his opposite sleeves. Rainier huffed out his breath as the man left, a curl of relief and confusion turning in his belly. He forewent the chantry, returning to the stables to work on that griffon that was taking up all his time.

Rainier seems to see him all over the place. In the Grand Hall lighting the sconces, rearranging books in the library, drinking heavily in the tavern. He’s not always in chantry robes either, he’s seen him in Inquisition leathers, basic clothing, and he swore he saw that moustache under an Orlesian mask once. He asks Bull about the man, and he gets a riddle of an answer.

“He’s not whatever he’s saying he is for sure. He’s posed like he’s ready to attack, and he scans the room every twenty minutes, keeps checking the position of the sun too. Might be an assassin, might be on the run, might be a spy. I’m guessing he’s at least two of those.” Bull said.

“He told me he was a homeless drunkard.” Rainier replied.

“Hmm? Oh he is. He could grow potatoes under those nails, and he keeps his teeth guarded, but I bet they’re rotten through. I’ve already passed the information to Red.”


	2. Bastard's Honour

It’s a few weeks before No One approaches Rainier, the sun is at it’s peak and the man is stumbling with two tankards in hand. He’s dressed in swathes of rags all knotted to keep them stable, a different sight to the man in chantry robes he had seen a while ago. Rainier manages to steer him into a seat and stops him from eating wood shavings.

“How can you be this drunk already?” Rainier laughs. He’s grabbing the man by the shoulders, No One keeps tilting from one side to the next threatening to fall off with every inch he moves.

“Pretty girls,” he hiccuped, “They buy me drinks.” Rainier gives him a look mixed with pity and pride. He takes the tankards away from No One, places them off to one side and sips at his own, he’d rather not get too drunk. There was always a slim chance that the Inquisitor might request him, if Cassandra and Bull are both too busy and the man thinks he may need another shield. He’d rather be sober and clean than anything else less than savoury. “I need, need, need some rope, Rainier.” He mumbles. Rainier fumbles with his tools and slices the skin from beside his nail, he hisses as he sucks at the digit. There’s red spilling from him and he doesn’t want it on the griffon, he thinks back to the jail cell they shared, and how much the fake blonde knew about ropes and prisoners.

“For what?” His voice is mumbled around the thickness of his finger.

“Tying stuff.” No One blanks. He makes a tying motion with his hands, though it looks like pinched fingers waving uselessly. “Rope.” He adds, like it’s the simplest thing. No One sighs into his seat and kicks out his legs, he catches Rainier’s calf with the edges of his toes but doesn’t apologise. Rainier didn’t know that man was bootless, he couldn’t tell from the dirt and grime which caked his feet. No One waits until the smell of bird shit disappears before draining his tankard and passing out where he’s sat.

There’s a coil of rope in his lap when he comes to, and a letter from Rainier. No One tucks it into his tunic and carries the rope to his room. It’s a small thing, more of a cupboard really, but he got it as a chantry brother, and now he just uses it as a drunkard.

Skyhold is all astir when a ruffled noble family returns in a damaged carriage by spooked horses. The inner area smells heavily of piss, and the mother and daughter are quickly escorted to the wash rooms to be calmed down and pampered. The driver is a nervous wreck flinching at every gust of wind and wildly stuttering about a demon wolf.

Rainier does his best with Master Dennet to return the horses to a stable, they’re spooked beyond belief, and have already kicked a stable boy’s shoulder from his socket.

The carriage driver yanks his arm so quickly out of Cullen’s grip Rainier fears he might break it. But for all he can hear the man saying, it’s his eyes that speak the loudest. His mask must have been abandoned, he guessed fashion didn’t matter if you were running for your life. Even if you were Orlesian. His irises were darting from one area to the next, wide, crazed almost. Whatever he saw out there was truly frightening, giant demon wolf or no.

It’s a marvel when the Inquisitor speaks to Rainier, it has been months since his trial, even longer since he had last spoken privately with the man. They were once great friends, sharing war stories and tales from the Free Marches, but that had been built on a single lie, and once removed it all came crumbling down. Rainier was crushed in the metaphorical rubble, and the hand that was pulling him out seemed dirtier than himself.

“Leliana is speaking to the scouts and them the workers, but my wife bade me to speak to you personally about this,” he said, he breathed deeply through his nose, and rolled his eyes before he spoke again, “Werewolf.”

“Werewolf? My Lord.” Rainier replied. He dusted his hands on his trousers and tried his best to discretely tidy himself.

“The Marquis who was attacked a few days ago, we found his body. Leliana says it is similar to the markings of a were- Maker, this is absurd.” He ran his hand through his thinning hair and scoffed. “You often accompany the woodworkers to collect lumber, have you seen anything unusual?”

“Can’t say I have.” He sighed. Part of Rainier wished to lie, to tell him he saw paw prints the size of a qunari’s boots, the trees have markings higher than a bear’s reach. By the void, he wanted to tell him he’d seen the damned thing. The Inquisitor nodded, lingering a moment before leaving. Rainier let his shoulders sag as he saw the man grow smaller and smaller, he was thankful it was less awkward than it could have been.

He goes back to his carving, he just needs to rub it down before he can paint it. Too many sharp edges, and he doesn’t want the kids to hurt themselves. He thinks continuously about the Inquisitor’s words. About how Leliana knows about werewolf markings, of course the woman knows everything but, werewolves? They’re not real.

No One leans on the side of the training circle, the soil at his feet drinking more of his ale than he does. He heckles the soldiers, shouts for them to dodge left only to be smacked in the face with a wooden pommel, or to feint low only to be backhanded by a shield.

“Shut your mouth bastard!” One of the soldiers roared, seething and red faced. No One whistles low and mock raises his hands in surrender. He laughs as the man stomps over to him and cracks their foreheads together, pushing him off like some trained mabari.

“You want me to shut my mouth so you can kiss me pretty, boy?” He said. He puckers his scarred lips as the man reels back with a squealed denial.

The fight continues as does his heckling. He makes swooning motions and obscure references to cocks, laughing when the man falls on his ass. No One shouts that he’ll kiss it better later, and wiggles his tongue beyond his lips. He makes off hand comments about how they should fight, how the man dips too low or is weaker on his left foot.

“You fight then, bastard.” He seethes. He throws the training weapons to the ground at No One’s feet. The wood soaks up the ale and is wet with sticky clumps of soil. No One laughs as he staggers into the ring, his legs stumbling from all the ale in his belly.

The other soldier laughs as he dances rings around No One, knocks him on his ass more times that he can count. His nose is swelling, and there’s blood in his mouth and dripping into one of his eyes. He can hear the men and women laugh as they watch him, and it’s only when the soldier has a boot in his chest and mud in his ears does he notice.

“A woman!” He laughs, grabbing at her calf. “Straddle me girly, I’m better with my other sword.” She removes her scouts helm and spits on him, making a point of walking away and leaving him lying in the dirt. No One stays in the grime for a few moments more before he is shifted and told to piss off.

He is back in the tavern within a minute or two, waggling his fingers at the female soldier as she returns from her bath half an hour later. He’s still covered in mud and gore, and Cabot’s hardly happy about it. But at least it’s dry now.

“I can teach you some filthy things in Orlesian.” No One whispers to the girl whose dress is lower than all the others, he’s partly to blame for pulling at her corset laces. “I’ve got some Antivan and Rivaini up there too.” He laughs as he kisses up her jaw. She giggling with whiskey breath, he’s got a hand up her skirt and he’s been fingering the edge of her underthings for a while now. She thinks he looks dangerous with his wounds, he told her he’d got them defending Skyhold.

“Come back to my room, I’ve got half a window you can fuck me up against.” She breathes. No One’s fingers still against her thigh.

“My room is closer.” He said, kissing down her neck. She’s laughing louder now, even some of the other shyer patrons are openly glaring. Cabot throws them out, as much as he likes the girl’s money, he’s losing more than she’s spending with their display.

Soon enough he’s got her breasts in his hands and she’s riding his cock like a professional, bouncing something awfully good. She’s moaning with an open mouth and holding onto the shelf above them. She clenches tight around his cock and shakes so violently.

“Just like that Alissa.” He grins as he rolls his hips into her.

“That’s not my name.” She pants.

“Judith?”

“No.”

“Maria?”

“No.”

“Henriette?” He shrugs. She slaps him hard and climbs off of him. Ignoring the grunt of pain he gives at getting his cock twisted, she gathers up her dress and slips outside, making the door yelp on it’s hinges as she leaves.

No One tugs his cock a few times, still wet from her, and grunts as he comes over himself. Perfect.

There’s a gathering amidst the courtyard the day after, both the Inquisitor and Leliana are addressing the crowd below them. No One is stumbling through, pushing soldiers and commoners alike out of his way. They’re talking about a wolf explaining that it’s large, strong, and smart enough to get into a travelling carriage. Telling people to be weary as they travel, and that scouts will be tracking the beast as best they can, and that no it’s not from a fade rift nearby.

“Horseshit.” No One laughs, a soldier stops him in his path and tells him to apologise. It’s unlikely the Inquisitor can hear them, but it’s more about respect than anything else. No One spits at his feet and makes a move to continue through the crowd but the soldier denies him. There’s a push and shove that starts, and nobody knows who made the first move. But the crowd stumbles away from the men who are scrambling at each other with the grace of children.

“Enough!” Comes the disapproving bellow of the Inquisitor. The soldier stands down immediately, kneeling in his apology. No One takes the opportunity to push him over, sending the man sprawling into the dirt. He ignores the undignified huffs and makes his way into the stables. Rainier isn’t there, and his belly curdles at the thought of how he’s always seeking him out. No One kicks at the dirt before dropping into a pile of loosened hay to sleep, it’s the first time he’s slept in four days.

Rainier wakes him up, eyes wide and sword at the ready. No One finds himself hunched in the corner, toes curling in the straw he’s standing on, and his fingers are clutching a mass lump of something. It’s wet and furred, and No One half thinks he’s slaughtered a prized horse and he’s got the head between his hands. Half of Rainier’s face is turning an awkward black in the moonlight, that explains why he’s got his sword out, pommel end ready to attack.

“Can I have my furs back?” Rainier whispers lowly, his voice soothing and non-threatening. No One swallows, he’s actually got strands of hair in his mouth and he passes the blanket back with one hand raised in surrender. “Would’ve been nice if you hadn’t tried to eat them.” Oh.

No One stays in the stables that night, awake as the sun broke through the horizon victorious yet again. He plays around with Rainier’s tools, shuffles a few of them about before picking up the man’s sword. It’s plain, nothing fancy on it, but it’s made of dragon bone and the rune in the pommel makes it crackle with electricity. He drops it back into it’s place, and then bends to stand it upright.

He hears Rainier wake and take a piss with a satisfying grunt, and he awkwardly presses on his own cock at the sound. The last time he got pissed on was by a group of drunken soldiers, they laughed until they didn’t.

“Still hungry after last nights feast?” Rainier yawns he’s pulling his tunic over his head and rolling up the sleeves as he descends the stairs.

“Breaking our fast together after a night in each others company?” No One said with a snort. “I’ll take it on a bastards honour.”

“I should make you pay after what you did to me last night.”

“I thought you weren’t that kind of man.” No One lets Rainier hit him in the face with a heady slap. Laughs as he jogs to catch him, and returns the favour only to miss and slip into the mud. Thom’s got a nice laugh, something loud and deep, like thunder before a blizzard. “I’d apologise about your face but the worst of it seems your parent’s fault.”

“Bastard.” He snorts and pulls him up anyway.

There’s no news on the mysterious beast lurking outside of Skyhold’s walls. But the soldiers camped out there are having fun telling ghost stories, and the children are less likely to run through the camp at night disturbing the guests. The little ones have also been eyeing up the half painted griffon, and Rainier has had to shoo a few away when the horses started to get spooked.

Rainier has been requested on a job, the Emerald Graves. He and the Inquisitor have this handy tactic for taking down the behemoths who seem to like the wide grassy expanse, they can both shoulder the burden of his heavy attacks with their two shields abreast, whilst the other two attack from far away. No One has been hovering in the libraries, picking up demon reports and pickling himself with the knowledge. He’s dressed as a scout though, hood up with a cloth over his mouth. Says he’s got a sickness in his chest and then people learn to leave him alone.

No One’s a bit irritated at the lack of things to do. He should leave, there’s nothing keeping him here, he knows. But that stone pearl charm he gave to Rainier, the bastard still has it.

The hefty coin purse he is given weighs him down like rocks in a river, and he leaves it on the bar top and wanders outside for a piss. When he returns it’s gone and he’s back to begging drinks. The letter he had received is tucked tightly into his ragged tunic, he hasn’t read it yet. A qunari buys him half a dozen drinks, doesn’t try to take him to bed, just gives him ale and tells him stupid stories.

He’s pissed as he staggers to the barn, curses as he turns around because Rainier isn’t there and climbs up the steep slope of the battlements. He follows it round until he can lower himself on a hidden ledge, and sleep there. Or at least try to. He shifts every time the moonlight prickles at his skin, and reads the letter in almost complete darkness. Better eyesight has been one of the perks of his illness, makes all the time he spends shitting his guts out almost worth it.

There’s a Fereldan Bann coming to Skyhold, she holds lands that the Inquisitor would like to use for troops and moving goods. He snorts in his laughter, she won’t hold them much longer.

It’s three days until one moon is full, proudly showing it’s true form. No One sneaks off in the night, staggering and singing and stumbling. The guards on duty laugh at him and let him go. He sleeps for the second day and night, and strips naked on the third. He buries his clothes in a tied blanket, marking them by pissing on the tree they’re buried under. The carriage already has about half a day’s travel on him, but he bounds a head nonetheless. He overturns her small encampment, slaying her guards who attack him and her too.

The few who managed to run away make it back to Skyhold, calling for help and crying out. No One hears of it a week after the fact, he’s been shitting something awful for three days and has been filling his belly with liquids instead of solids. The qunari buys him another drink and sets the coin pouch beside No One, he waves it off. Tries to ignore how his eye seems to peel away all his walls, what did he say when he was drunk that time?

He tries to leave at a normal pace, nervousness at the sovereigns in hand. The bag is still full, so the qunari must know something. He can feel the guards watching him, and his footsteps quicken as he returns to the stables.

He soaks up Thom’s scent, inhaling deeply and curling up in the blankets he uses sometimes. He always smells like the woods, certain trees that grabbed at him with their branches, he smells like sweat, and of hair that hasn’t been washed in more than a few days. It’s disgusting and No One makes a bundle out of the man’s overcoat and fucks it. He comes over the hay he’s laying on and makes a pillow from the violated coat, he can’t sleep but he suffocates himself anyway.

Rainier returns within a fortnight of the coat fucking, and No One has been sleeping in the barn since. The guardsmen seem to have been watching him more lately, unless he was just paranoid.

“Happen to still be here ey?” Rainier said as he saw him. He’s pulling off his layers, leaving him in just his breeches and boots.

“How could I leave, that night together was-” No One made a smacking noise with his lips and grinned.

“Idiot.” Rainier laughed. Less like thunder more like sheets of rain on a cabin roof, heard from the inside. “Can’t say I’m not happy to see a friend, I’ll buy you a drink later.” He shrugs at No One’s expression, taking his silence as confusion and not the major heart palpitations he’s having at being called a friend. “We get paid more if we’re up and out with the Inquisitor. I don’t mind sharing with… You, whatever your name is.”

“Maybe I’ll tell you one day. On a bastard’s honour.” No One slaps Rainier’s back and leaves the man in peace, more interested in fleeing than staying around to talk with his newly announced friend. He should really think about leaving Skyhold, he fingers the letters he’s still wearing beneath his clothes. Rainier’s is in there.

No One’s in the tavern before Rainier is, and he even took the time to bathe. Smothered the bleaching sludge into his hair and wrapped it for an hour, washed his body and got kicked out of the bathhouse for ogling women. He thinks he should douse himself in ale so Rainier won’t know, but he’s made an effort, knocking knees with the big boys now. At least he hasn’t curled his hair.

Thom comes in and gets dragged off by a blonde elf, she’s giggling and snorting and pulling him upstairs. Of course, No One thinks, friends.

He downs his ale faster than usual, and decides to sit beside the Qunari. Big tough looking drunk bugger with one eye, or a fetish for eye patches, and a soldier asking him questions.

“You took my money.” No One said. He grabs for the man’s pint and swallows that down, spills half of it down his clothes on purpose, and wipes his mouth with the hem. The soldier looks angry, but lets the thievery go, walks off himself after he salutes.

“You left it at the bar, tavern’s full of sticky fingers.” He laughs, “I did you a favour big guy. The bag is full.” No One stayed silent, he had a point, ass. “We never got introduced last time. I’m The Iron Bull.”

“I’m No One.” He snorted into the half full tankard. This entire place was full of people using noms de guerre.

“Nice. I like it.” Bull laughed. He didn’t sound like thunder before a snowstorm, or rain on a cabin roof. He sounded like a big Qunari laughing too loud.


	3. We Met in Orlais

No One left the tavern after Bull had introduced himself. He had a tangle with a group of soldiers walking in, he pushed passed them, jolting them into the door frame and flashing his softened cock as he left. They bellowed after him, the insults he’d heard a thousand times and more.

Friend. Wanker.

Rainier was a boot licker, and a boot licker’s kisses tasted like shit. A valued lesson he’d learnt the hard way. No One rubbed his palms into his eyes and smudged the black he had lined there, he spread it into the valleys around his eyes, and dragged his dirty palms down his face. He felt better already, and he didn’t want Rainier’s kisses. Maker he felt a fool for being taken in by it all, but that look on his face when he saw him after all that time.

It reminded him of home. Back when he was somebody, when he had a family, when he was a son and a brother. He snorted, and chewed his nail as he walked. No One had no one. He squashed whatever future memories his mind had created, too afraid to think of tomorrow.

He slept in the small nook he’d found before, threw an old faded Inquisition tarp from one wall to the other and kept himself away from the stars in the night. He’d stolen a chamber pot to shit in, but he pissed straight off the battlements. The thought of urinating down a mountainside excited him, nobody else seemed to see the thrill of it, but he supposed it wasn’t the same for women. He had tried it. He took a girl up there, stargazing, itching something awful for him. He kept the blanket draped over his head and let her lean back on his chest. No One had fingered her something pretty and spread her legs so wide she’d emptied her bladder down the mountain. Lost interest after that, told him that it was too strange for her. That didn’t mean she didn’t blush a pretty pink when she saw him in the tavern.

The small crook he had unofficially taken was becoming quite homey. He threw some more tarp up to make a half made tent, branching from the edge of the battlements to being nailed in the stonework opposite. No One tossed a few stolen pillows and blankets down, they were plush and thick and made for the more extravagant of guests, and he had even hauled some books up there for something to rest his feet on.

It was well hidden, unless you were on guard duty or wandered too far off the designated path. But nobody did that. The fallen rubble path that hadn’t been cleared and rebuilt was still making it a dangerous place to cross. No One knew the stones which didn’t shift under his weight, and knew which to grab if he fell.

His usual monthly contract didn’t appear, a piece of parchment stained with black ink was delivered to him instead. No job this month, enjoy yourself. Bloody piss merchant that he was, No One needed him and his contacts. Granted he didn’t spend the money that he earned, just happened to misplace it in some of the poorer parts of the cities he had travelled through. To say he frequented alienages would hardly be a lie, and if someone grabbed it then it was his fault for leaving it someplace deemed to be dangerous.

There were people out there, sick people, who didn’t want the usual assassin. Too fancy, couldn’t hire a crow to do it professionally, and they wanted blood. No One fit the role perfectly. An added bonus was that the whole ordeal was often written up as a savage animal attack, which is it was, but it was hardly a normal animal. He had to relocate more often than not, too many deaths on full moons and people start crying blood mage at every passing man. It also meant he could never form any lasting relationships, or stick around long enough to sire a bastard and know about it.

It gave him a distraction when the world slept, it didn’t bring him joy nor happiness. It didn’t truly give him a purpose; he wasn’t even a pawn in the Grand Game anymore. More of a chipped off flake, or the minor weight that tipped the chess piece over. No One thought this was infinitely better than being an active player; Orlais had killed who he used to be. From his ashes he had been reborn an abomination.

The piss merchant who held his leash was a short fellow with golden whiskers and three wives in three separate countries. He had followed him as he returned to his clothing graveyard, covered in Orlesian blood, probably hunting for a nice new pelt to sell on. A werewolf hide would bring in a lot of money, they were hard to kill and even harder to find. He watched him fall asleep, watched his body contort, shrink, and break until he looked half human. Then he’d given him a job, or rather coerced him into it. Pelt be damned, you gain more money owning a dog than killing it.

No One had explained to him that it was a monthly thing, like how women bleed, sometimes bi monthly if both moons were almost synched in their cycles. Any other time the moonlight just gave him an awful rash if he stayed in it too long. Lumps filled with pus and curled up hairs that didn’t break the skin. Disgusting. The piss merchant gave him some foul smelling salve to rub on himself, No One refused, he knew what the man put in his wares. Chalk and bone ash being some of the nicer powders.

Rainier found him eventually; he had been wandering Skyhold taking a second glance at everyone with blonde hair. The small cloth covered hiding hole was easy to spot from the stables if it was windy enough, and he spent a lot of his nights in there. He had quarters of course, a big fancy room with an entire washroom for his private use. Rainier felt out of place in it, he didn’t deserve something so perfect and such from the lovely Lady Josephine.

“I thought if I can’t get you into the tavern, I can bring it to you. Whiskey?” He said. He pulled back one of the makeshift doors and crawled inside. The room was larger than he had expected, darker, but No One had pulled the ceiling open to let the midday light stream through. Rainier noted the man had no candles stocked, but he supposed the whole thing could go up in flames from the alcohol fumes.

“Merci.” No One huffed. He squashed all thoughts anything beyond friendliness from his mind, and grabbed for the bottle. He pulled the cork out with his iron teeth and spat it into the chamber pot. Rainier managed to grab a peek at the caps, they seemed inhumanly long, reaching up to cover his gums, and giving a thickness and a slight glow inside his cheeks.

The whiskey smelt rich, and was honey coloured and looked honey textured. Thick and syrupy, a whiskey made for diluting with something fruity. No One held the bottle under his nose and sniffed deeply, he coughed and cleared his throat when he caught Thom’s eyes.

“You’re Orlesian?” Rainier said.

“We met in Orlais.”

“You just sound-” Rainier rolled his wrist trying to place his accent. Fereldan? Free Marcher? Even a few of his words sounded Rivaini. He’d spent enough time in Orlais to know when a man was faking an accent, and that brought more questions to his mind.

“I am from nowhere.” He drank a few mouthfuls of whiskey and held the bottle in his hands. Letting the liquid dance as he gently shook it. Rainier scoffed and laughed.

“No One from nowhere?” He grabbed for the bottle but No One snatched it back, clutching it to his chest with dirty palms.

“I thought this drink was for me.” He cradled it to his chest. Bull was right about the nails, Rainier thought, dirt and grime underneath them blackened the tips. He remembers when blackened nails were high fashion in Val Royeaux, charcoal and onyx laced paint creating beggars nails.

“To share, we’re drinking together, you’re supposed to-” Rainier shook his head and waved him off. “Forget it, it’s yours.” He chuckled as he leant back against the stone walls. No One was a strange man, and Thom knew this, thinking back the man gave no indication otherwise. He was queer in the way he did things, the way he slept, the way he walked bowlegged, how he held himself in public. He couldn’t make heads or tails of the man but that didn’t mean he couldn’t like him, that didn’t mean he couldn’t try to help him.

The chevalier in his youth gave him a chance, Blackwall had given him a chance, and now the Inquisitor had too. It’s time Rainier started repaying his debts. Starting with the man in front of him. No One kicked out his legs and laid them atop of the stack of books, old ones, Rainier noted, half hidden under scraps of cloth. He bit his lip when he saw the cracked spine of _The History of Grey Wardens in Ferelden_ atop the pile, No One’s foot having scuffed the rags it hid beneath.

The guard shifts doubled around the time of the full moon. Both moons would be at their fullest within three days of each other, which meant the trade to and from Skyhold had been delayed due to rumours of this demon werewolf. People had taken to bragging about it all, but everyone was slightly afraid no matter how well they bluffed. Some said they could go out and kill it if they had the time, daring their friends to see who could go the furthest from the gates. Childish games, but ultimately without danger.

No One had a hard time slipping through those specific barred gates. The soldiers who had seen him last time would surely make a connection or at the minimum make note of him, people were being monitored by scouts and that damned Commander’s perch. He had eventually made it through the gates, slipped out with a carriage of stock, the last one to be sent out for all the fear swelling in the fortress.

The man went through his routine of sleeping, stripping, and pissing, then he dipped into the fade.

He was not a mage of any sort, in his youth he heard naught but frightful tales of them. Magic wielders, abominations, apostates, warmongers, demon lovers, blood mages, maleficar, a thousand names for a thousand men. They still scared him. Even more so now that he was tainted with it, he had lyrium sigils in his mouth guards, sucked on them to stop the beast from controlling him. Or he thought they were sigils, the note that had been stitched into his hand had been very vague about it all.

Bull had told Rainier about the man’s attitude when he saw him last. Told him that he came trussed up, and soured when Sera grabbed him.

“Getting back on the horse!” Bull laughed long and loud as he slapped him on the back and congratulated him, No One wasn’t too attractive but still. He knew Rainier hadn’t had any in years, any that hadn’t been bought.

“I’m not, we’re not, I didn’t, bugger.” He laughed, giving up on the explanation.

“Really? Huh.”

“What?”

“Oh he just looked like, you know, expectant.” He shrugged and scratched at his eyepatch. “Don’t worry about it tough guy, maybe I’m wrong.”

“Ben-Hassrath? Wrong?”

“Hah!” Bull brought him a drink, and Cabot gave him another bottle to take. He’d brought another to take with him, since the last one left him sober with No One. It wasn’t the first time he’d gotten his twine crossed with another man, wouldn’t be the last either.

Rainier whistled his way up to the hidden ledge, passed the guards with a solemn nod. People still distrusted him, whispered things as he passed and turned away. The Orlesians especially. Some of them were friends of the Calliers, some of them were family. He slipped slightly and scoffed as he almost dropped off the mountainside, what a way to go.

No One wasn’t in his usual nook, the whiskey bottle sat where Thom had placed himself when he was last here, mostly empty, thankfully still uncorked. He swallows what little is left, smiling at the sweetness. He stood for a while outside of the tent, waiting to see him, to make the attempt of breaking down his walls. But the night grew colder and even his beard had caught a chill. Returning to his rooms was the best option, maybe he could check on him earlier in the morning. He left the two bottles as a peace offering, maybe No One was avoiding him, though his gut soured at the thought. He rolled the chalk pearl in his fingers as he walked back, his numb digits finding comfort in the motion.

No One spent half the night rolling in leaves. The more crisp ones felt nice as they broke under his weight and scratched at him. Half of them would stick to his fur, which was irritating for any animal, of course then he would just have the excuse of rubbing up against a tree. Simple pleasures for such a simple minded beast.

The lights from Skyhold were still visible to him, sconces which lit either side of the iron gates, a few windows and arrow slits illuminated by candles within. The guards didn’t carry torches, which was a smart move for hiding themselves from a less than friendly arrow.

No One doesn’t remember much of his time as a beast; he vomits as he wakes five days after his transformation, something foul and somewhat fresh in his mouth. He thinks it’s half a nug, because the hairless bastards always seem like a good idea when he’s eating them raw. He washes himself in the mountain snow, staggers back into his clothes, and leaves his makeshift bed to journey back to Skyhold. It’s not so far away, but it takes him a few hours and his legs ache more than anything.

He waves to nothing as he enters, lets the guards on duty think he’s here to see someone, and makes the final few minute journey back up to his little nook. He collapses into his bed, the comfier one made for a normal sized man, and grunts as lumps press into his gut.

His whiskey bottle is empty, and he pushes the curved glass from under him with great effort. Rolling to see six other bottles standing across from him, inches from his naked feet, he grunts and tries to sit up. The energy is wasted on the movement and he just lies back instead, letting the air rush from his lungs in failure. There’s a piece of parchment tied to one of the bottles, the clear blocked writing looks familiar to him. But he knows it’s not his employer; that bastard gets his servants to write for him, and they have this dramatically curled writing which always looks out of place in an assassination contract. So he shrugs it off, his eyes ache and there’s a pain behind his nose.

No One’s legs are burning something fierce, and his jaw always aches after a transitional night, but he’s thankful to have his teeth back in place. He manages to grab his chained iron jewels from their perch and slips them around his neck. It’s a heavy sense of comfort that he gets, sort of like having your hands in iron cuffs, he thinks, except this is a more voluntary action.

He doesn’t sleep, that’s a laughable idea, but simply waits until his jaw clicks back into place, and the burn in his calves disappears. It’s a few hours before he can grab for one of the bottles with his foot. He grabs the neck of it between his big and second toe, and drags it up to where he can reach it with his hand. Perfect. It’s a Fereldan Bitter, a black liquid which smells like liquorice and froths if you put elfroot in. It was one of his favourite drinks from Ferelden; he guessed it was blind luck since he hadn’t told anyone. Perhaps he had told that Qunari, the Iron Bull, when he was too drunk to know.

A thought passed through him that he should be more careful about strange drinks simply left in his nook. But he drowned it out by drinking more of what could be poison. It wasn’t as if the churning in his belly could worsen.

No One uses his toes to grab for the parchment, kicking the bottle with one foot and pulling the tag with the other. The corner tears off but he brings it up to his eyes anyway. There’s an apology, a large drop of ink smudged by a thumb, and the initials TR. He scoffs as he flicks it away only for it to curl and dance in the air before settling on his chest. Defeated he pushes it inside the rags he wears with the other letters he keeps.

Rainier finds him the next day, whiskey bottle in hand, and his beard splits into a grin.

“I see you found the gifts.” He points. Three are empty, but No One can’t remember drinking them. “I was worried about you, I’m being called into Crestwood in a few days, and I wanted to make sure we were good.” Rainer sits beside the whiskey pile when he lets himself in. Ignoring the sprawling man who’s scratching the juncture of his thighs.

“Why wouldn’t we be? Alcohol is evidently the way to my heart.” No One snorts. He uncorks a bottle and watches it dive into the chamber pot.

“Or your liver.” Rainier chuckles. The pair sit in silence, drinking from their bottles and both avoiding a conversation. “Have you heard about this prowling demon?” He snatches for a topic.

“It’s bollocks. Demons might be pouring out of the sky but it’s hardly Le Petit Chaperon Rouge on this mountain.” No One scoffed, he bit his tongue and chastised himself, at least it was a pauper's tale. What a pity that he had become the wolf and the child who made such silly mistakes. 

“For a man not from Orlais, you seem to know a great deal about Orlesian nursery tales.” Rainier grinned.

“We met in Orlais.”

“Ah yes, I forgot about the children in our cage, telling us about wolves and red cloaks.”

“Piss off.” He kicks Rainier’s knee with a well angled heel, he’s rewarded with a pained grunt and a breathy laugh. “How do you know of it anyway?” He picks at the string tied around his bottle, acting a decade younger than he is.

“We met in Orlais didn’t we?” He dodged the pillow that is thrown at his head easily, both descending into tipsy laughter. 


	4. Something it Isn't

Rainier had spent a day or two preparing for the journey to Crestwood, polishing armour and knocking out a few dents. His tunics begged for a few stitches, and even his socks were more gaps than fabric. No One had been absent, even from his personal room, but had appeared on the last day with a sack of mead, a second larger chalk pearl, and a pat on the back. He thought it awkward, and waved to him as he left. He hadn’t thought to take the gift on the journey, but Bull had pulled the drink from his belongings the first night at camp, waving it in pre-celebration. The smoothened rock had already began dusting the insides of his pocket.

They were to hunt a dragon. The one that they had flushed from the valley had come back and had started nesting again. Frederic of Serault had told him a dozen probable reasons as to why, giddy in his horse saddle and constantly making notes. Thom thought he was a nice bloke, a bit absent and a bit excitable, but nice.

Bull had dropped into the conversation easily, having been excused by Vivienne, and had fuelled Frederic’s excitement tenfold. Thom allowed his horse to drop behind, a few steps away from the others, but close enough to act should they be ambushed. He was thankful for the absence of chatter, the man’s tuneful voice and the rocking of his horse threatening to lull him to sleep.

When he had actually wanted to sleep the voice came back in muffled whispers. The void with it all, Thom didn’t need to hear a man begging to ride the Bull in Orlesian. His cock swelled at the sound, and he ignored it for the most part, opting to press on his groin instead of actively stroking it. From the Orlesian he could remember, filthy phrases would always be on top of the list; if only because he had learnt those first. Repeated them a dozen times too. He rode at the back of the group for the rest of the journey, ignoring how Frederic rode closer to Bull and how his neck lit up with purpling splotches.

They arrived at Caer Bronach a day earlier than they had intended to. The Inquisitor had pushed them to ride harder, eager to sort out this beast and return home. Corypheus was still hiding around the corner. Somewhere.

His palms outstretched for warmth from the camp fire he thought about writing a letter, a thank you for the mead and the strange rock. But he didn’t know who to send it to. Writing ‘No One’ on the paper wouldn’t get it to the right place. He sagged where he sat and ignored the grin that Bull sent his way. Dammed Qunari was looking into things that didn’t exist.

No One pulled his metal teeth from his mouth with a pained grunt. It pinched at his gums and his inner cheeks were scarred from over enthusiastic eating. He poured the lyrium on with practised ease, using the syringe to lay it evenly, before clamping them back in place. It burned and his fist thumped against the floor in agony before it settled and his aches were dulled.

Getting lyrium for his teeth was easy. A few random letters on a scrap of paper shoved into the right pocket and he’d have a fresh bottle delivered the next morning. No One often thought about the Templars quaffing the liquid, the addiction of it all. He couldn’t decide if he was better or worse if his was a healer’s need. He didn’t want to think about the red.

He always slept after a fresh dose. Repeating the same dream in the Fade over and over. Always running, leaves and branches whipping at his face with his hair matted to his cheeks and neck. Four sets of golden armour chasing him. The heavy smack of metal on metal, swords unsheathed. He awoke sprawled out and sucking on the stone floor, his teeth ached and his arms were itchy and splotched with red.

“Fucking.. Ah shit.” He swore. Moonlight burns across his hands, he must have thrown them outside in his dream fits. He managed to soak a few rags in an old wash bowl, using his feet he pulled them out and gently lay them over his hands. He slowly made to carefully uncork one of the undisturbed bottles, and held it with his palms flat and fingers outstretched. The pain was like ants under his skin, but the more he drank the less he felt, and all those little ants drowned.

“Hey tough guy.” Bull murmured sitting beside Thom. He thumps himself down heavily, and tucks one foot under himself. He smells faintly of sex and blood, and something sweeter in the dented tankard he carries. Thom nods in his direction but continues picking at the callouses on his fingers. Little bumps reminding him of holding swords or chisels, the leather leads of war hounds and hunting dogs. “How’s No One doing?”

“Hm?”

“Back at Skyhold.” Bull sips at his drink. His tongue wriggling free across his lips to wipe up the frothy excess.

“We’ve patched things up, a bit of whiskey and some insults.” Thom shrugs with a small grin across his lips. “No One?” He adds a moment later.

“Yeah, that’s the only name he told me.” Bull leaves a pause for the other man to speak, “A name like that, tells me more than he thinks it does.”

“Oh?” Thom laughs and shoves his hands between his thighs. The lumps are now rivets and on the verge of spilling.

“No One, that means he used to be someone, someone important. A high noble, or royalty.” He takes another drink, “He’s a good fighter too.” Thom laughs outright. He remembers the blind punch which cracked across his nose one night a while ago, and the way the man couldn’t hit him with his eyes open.

Bull laughs with him, his eyes glinting and crinkling at the edges. He’s avoids the subject of the man as the night goes on, Thom’s too friendly with the man to take an outsider’s insult.

With the dragon dead, Thom finally gets a good night’s rest. Bar the murmuring of a half asleep Frederic with ink stained parchment sticking to his mask. He wakes before the sun is fully risen, with only a few of it’s fingers peaking over the horizon to grab at the hills. He finds a private place to relieve himself a few meters away from camp, and nods to the Inquisitor as he returns. The creases on his face are deeper, and his clothes are half undone.

“M'Lord.” Thom gently prods.

“News from Skyhold.” He waves the letter gently, “Some of the hunters found more tracks outside the fortress walls, a dozen or more carcasses.”

“Human?” He frowns. It turns his gut and he’s glad he’s already emptied everything.

“No.” He stops to bite at the tip of his thumb, “Leliana tells me that injuries spread the ailment, and if someone was attacked and left alive.. Maker I cannot fight a dozen wars at once.”

“You’re not doing it alone, whatever’s out there can’t be any worse than what we’ve already seen.” His confidence is spilling out too loosely, over excited at the thought of a little forgiveness being allowed. The Inquisitor nods before leaving to write his own letter in return. They’ll travel ahead while scouts pick through the dead dragon, aiming to get back to Skyhold before anything else happens.

They ride quickly on the first day, Thom’s thighs itching with saddle sores. It’s been a while since he’s travelled like this, the Inquisitor never usually rushes anywhere, content to have his companions at their peak and not exhausted or aching.

Bull kept him company on the journey back. Laughing and joking about inane things and that damned dragon. His mind drifted a few times, thinking about Sera and how she was getting along with the arcanist. She’d punched him when he waggled his eyebrows in suggestion, and called him a dirty old man to boot. No One crept into his thoughts silently, along with Bull’s recent words. He squashed them in his belly and hoped the man was faring well. He fingers his inner pocket to check the stone is still there, it’s hard against his chest and he finds comfort in the pressure.

Trevelyan had taken two tents, leaving Frederic with his own back in Crestwood. He shared with Vivienne, claiming that it was better size wise, himself being over six foot tall meaning he couldn’t share with Bull. The fact that neither he nor Vivienne wanted to share with Thom went unsaid, but it need not have been spoken anyway.

Bull was kind in saying he wanted to share with him, even if it may have been out of pity. It curdled in him slightly, but that was the old Rainier speaking, Blackwall would take a man’s pity if it meant a warm, dry bed.

Back at Skyhold No One, still nursing cracked skin and blisters across his hands, manages to beg a meal off of a tavern girl. He sits off to the side with his legs spread as he drinks the soup down. It’s absent of any taste, but it’s thick and warm and settles in his belly kindly. He knows he’s sat in the Qunari’s place, and he picks out the eyes that squint at him, making sure to note who they are and what they look like. He’s seen the soldier before, itching to defend The Iron Bull, and now again with that same look on his face. No One waggles his burnt fingers at the man.

Cabot has him thrown out. He wraps the blankets he wears up over his head, dashing to his home made cove to avoid how the sun dips lower beyond the mountains. No One knows he should have left the tavern an hour or two ago, but he was waiting to see if the soldier would start something. Any injuries he sustained from the poor excuse of sparring he did had all healed, and all the aches he had were simply a monthly exhaustion.

A letter awaits him, set atop a wrapped parcel, in his small home. The letter is sent with a wax tongue stamped to hold it shut. He opens it with his teeth and scratches at the seal until it is unrecognisable.

The piss monger was mostly complaining throughout. Words from Skyhold had reached him in Antiva, and he’s worried he’ll lose his menu speciality. No One scoffs and tuts as he traces the looping words, he won’t get caught, he never has, and being supposedly one of a kind lends to it all. It’s like people stabbing at branches and hoping to catch fish.

He does however, compliment him, because he has half a dozen contracts waiting to be fulfilled. All of them centred around Skyhold. A few a day or so away, but close enough that No One can do the job without moving too much. Not that it had ever been a problem before. His faced screwed up and he slipped the letter into the folds of his layers, things were changing, and change was hardly pleasant.

No One heard whispers that the dragon in Crestwood had been killed, and that the Inquisitor was returning to Skyhold. He thought of Rainier momentarily. The man was short, wide, and had far too much hair to be a dragon hunter. Perhaps he had stayed away from the beast, or gotten himself killed. No One forcefully ignored that stab in his gut.

The months spent in jail, apart, and then in Skyhold, it had made him soft towards him. He hadn’t felt any connection with another person in years. Truly the only person he kept writing to was his employer, and he was hardly amicable. No One patted the letters that served as poor insulation; little reminders he kept hidden from the world.

He picked a few loose pebbles from the ground as he walked, the rain had made the soil damp and it found satisfying shelter between his toes. Guards still trained in the sparring circle, others running through drills and repetitive exercises. He bites his lips as he thinks of the own trials he went through. That bloody scrap of cloth, he scoffs, thrown into the tree and fetched, thrown into the tree and fetched, thrown into the tree and fetched. Hours it went on for.

The Inquisitor’s party arrived a few hours after dusk, or so No One hears, he doesn’t want to pull back the walls of his home to find out. Surprisingly he doesn’t need to, Rainier does it for him. He smells like soap and damp, his clothes are fresh and tinged with crystal grace.

“Evening.” He squats as he enters, grunting as he sits himself on the embroidered pillows. “I thought I’d check in on you, you weren’t out by the gates?”

“Was I supposed to be?” No One raises his brow with a grin to match.

“No.” He snorts “It’s nothing like that.” They drink what little is left of the bottles No One has found about the fortress. Neither of them drunk, or on their way there.

“Why did you want me to be there?” No One flicks his thumb in and out of the bottle neck, making a whistling thump with each swipe. Rainier finds it’s both soothing and distracting.

“Don’t make it into something it isn’t.” He said, “I just,” he sighs and rolls the empty bottle between his hands. “Everyone else had someone there. Before all this, at least someone would be there to congratulate me on a safe journey.” No One stared at the man’s downcast eyes, he was too embarrassed to look anywhere but his own lap. Sometimes Sera would greet him, a big grin on her face and darting around him and his horse. He felt awkwardly deflated when No One hadn’t been there. If only because the man had slipped in and out of his thoughts throughout the journey to and from Crestwood. “Ah listen to me, bringing us down like that. Lets go to the tavern, celebrate.”

“It is late, no?” No One can see the speckles of dust glittering and dancing in the air as Rainier pulls back the makeshift door. His hands are still injured, but they’re trapped in stolen fur lined gloves so nobody notices it any more. He wonders if he did it for his own benefit or on the chance that Rainier may come by.

He thinks about going, wrapping himself up in cloth so he can make the journey to the tavern. It’s not as if he hasn’t cocooned himself in blankets to survive a night outside before. But, a small part of himself reminds him, it’s not worth it. To dash across the courtyard in some attempt to dodge the light if Rainier intended to meet other people there, No One had no intentions of being friends with anyone. Rainier was becoming an exception to the rule, and that was more than enough.

“There’s still light out.” Rainier interrupted his thoughts.

“Ah but you don’t have to climb the ramparts to get into bed.” He grinned, with the rain turned to frost the steps had become more dangerous as of late, and the broken path borderline treacherous. Rainier scoffed as he let the door flap fall shut, it took a few seconds before his eyes readjusted to the darkness. “Another time perhaps. As for now, we have this.” He grabbed for the parcel he had received earlier, pulling at the ties and lifting out a vintage wine. The cork was sealed with painted rope and golden wax, a clear sign of elitism in the world of vintners. No One snorted as he fingered the dented inlay where a gemstone should sit in the wax, the piss merchant must have lifted it already. He passed the bottle to Rainier, who seemed apprehensive to take it.

“Are you sure? This is worth a few hundred-”

“It’s wine, Rainier.” He laughed softly.

“Do you have any glasses? I feel like we need glasses for this.”

“Don’t make it into something it’s not, remember?” No One is tempted to snatch it back and open the bottle with his own damaged hands.

“But this is expensive wine.” Rainier paused and held it between his hands, rolling it to examine the hand painted label and the vintners mark. “I don’t feel worthy of drinking this. This should be a celebration drink, something to have when the war is over not now.” No One snatches the bottle back and shoves it into it’s original box.

“It’s just wine.” He repeats sourly. He shuffles in his place and lies back on the pillows he stole with an exasperated sigh. Rainier apologises and No One kicks him gently with the heel of his foot.

“Tomorrow.” Rainier states after minutes of silence. No One snorts and lifts his head up to look at the other man. “Cabot serves spiced pottage every morning, it’s quite nice.” From all the layers he wears he can’t see how thin No One is. Back in the prison he’d washed his bits under his clothes, holding up and armful of awkwardly stitched rags just to reach himself. It made him think if No One actually ate, and pottage was thick and filling.

“Careful Rainier, it almost sounds as if you want to stay the night. Offering me a morning meal as you do.” He hums. Thom lets out a huff of laughter and knocks his knuckle against No One’s ankle.

They stay talking for an hour or two more, Rainier recalling the latest dragon fight and pointing out that dealing with something that spits lighting when you’re encased in metal isn’t really that fun. No One laughs with him anyway. He still sounds like soft rumblings of distant thunder, while he thinks he sounds like arrow bolts from a dozen crossbows himself. Rainier excuses himself when it starts to get too dark, and No One throws his blankets over his head and lets them drag across the dusted floor, just to make sure the other man makes it across the broken ramparts safely.

“Tomorrow.” No One shouts far too loud at this time of night. “I want some of that spicy porridge.”

“Pottage.” Rainier laughs and waves him off. He quickly darts back inside and ensures the tarp home is secured as to not let any light in. No One fingers the edge of the wine bottle box, flicking his nails across the carved edges. He pulls it out of the box and stuffs it back in multiple times. It is only wine after all, but the way Rainier spoke about it made it something else. It’s not just wine any more, it’s wine influenced by Thom.

No One scoffs at his own thoughts and buries the wine box behind the stack of books, using his toes to cover it with the draping rags. He flops over onto his front and grinds himself into a pillow until he comes over it with a stuttered yell, and he wipes what he can off and shoves that pillow to the bottom of the pile. He feels perfectly elated just to lie there with his eyes closed for a few hours, never daring to fall asleep, but thinking of wild futures he could never have.

Rainier, after having decided to sleep in the hayloft, finds his cock swelling at the sound of No One finding his own pleasure. He angles his arms so his hands are squashed under his own weight and sighs when his erection softens. There wouldn’t be any harm in touching himself, it’s not as if men haven’t inspired his thoughts before. But those were absent men, heavily inebriated in war with a lust for a woman that wasn’t there. No One was a friend, or something that was getting there.

Not to mention he was buying the man food to break his fast with, and no doubt Bull would be there with his all seeing eye and a grin across his lips. He could do without the prying looks of a man finding things that didn't exist.


	5. There's a Difference

When dawn slipped over the mountain tops and the peaks turned orange No One stretched himself out, grunting at the stiffness of his limbs and rolling out the aches in his bones. He washes his mouth out with something strong and Dalish that he couldn’t pronounce the name of, and rubs a rough salt cloth over his natural teeth before slipping his iron caps back over them.

He is loathe to admit it, but sometimes he misses the days when he would have a freshly prepared paste sitting across from him, and a small horse hair brush to clean with. But those were fineries, something a man like him shouldn’t yearn for.

He wondered exactly what were the customs of meeting someone for their first meal in Skyhold. Should he wait to see if Rainier would come and get him when he awoke, or was he supposed to meet at the tavern? Or would it be polite to grab him as he passes the stables? That is after assuming the man had slept there and hadn’t returned to some form of proper accommodation.

No One checked the skies carefully before he emerged from his tarp home, sighing as he emptied his bladder off the battlements. He nodded at one of the guardsmen who stilled, turned, and marched away when he noticed him. No One wiped his hands with the edges of his rags, and slipped his stolen gloves around the tender skin of his fingers. The blisters had grown callous with time. But there were parts he had peeled away that left angered pink patches in between rough jagged edges.

He whistled mindlessly as he walked across the ramparts. His feet numbing at the mostly frozen stones, but he purposefully stepped heavily enough for them to slap wetly against the walkways. He still had mud between his toes and under the curling edges of his nails, and it was doubtful that they would get any cleaner throughout the rest of the day.

Rainier was still asleep when No One found him, his heavy broken nosed snores emerging from a lump of furs. He felt content enough to wait until the other man awoke. Spending his time picking at the straw bundles and braiding it loosely until the strands snapped and splintered, he threw them at Rainier when they did that, and soon enough the man’s blankets were topped with half poorly twisted straw.

As Rainier yawned himself to a reasonably coherent state, he stood slow to engage with the world. He's thankful that he hadn't drank so much last night, the older he gets the worse the hangovers affect him.  No One thinks he's a sight a world away from the man he saw in their cell; he clearly felt safe here, perhaps he even felt at home. He scratched his jaw as the sharper end of a piece of hay stabbed him. Rainier murmured his good morning and slipped into a fresh pair of breeches and a half clean tunic. No One had grinned at the sight of his legs. A few scars here and there, silver lines hidden beneath a denseness of black hair that trailed from beyond his ankles to beyond the edge of his night gown.

Propping his own legs up, he sucked on a piece of straw, holding it loosely between his teeth. He whistled low as Rainier took his morning piss, which earned him a scoff and a rumble of laughter.

Thom buys both bowls of pottage once they reach the tavern and he’s glad that Bull isn’t there to judge him with his prying stare. Cabot gives him a quick nod, and the barmaids argue over who has to carry the bowls over when it’s served. No One recognises her quickly as she marches over, he remembers the sight of her breasts, and the taste of sweat between her thighs. She wasn’t a tavern maid before.

Half of the thick vegetable soup spills on the table, soaking into the sticky ale stained wood and dripping down into the layers of No One’s rags. It leaves wet burns on his legs as it seeps through the itching fabric.

“Remember me now? Bastard.” She hacks something from her throat into his ale and stomps out of the tavern. Rainier offers him a low whistle, and a pair of raised eyebrows. She’s still not a tavern maid.

The spiced pottage is relatively nice for what it is. Lumps of vegetables too ugly to be served for nobility, the tops and the bruises, all stirred into a thick slop with salt and something red with a burn to it’s flavour.

“You’re not actually going to drink that, are you?” Rainier scoffs in confusion as No One brings the tankard to his lips, his tongue burns from drinking the slop too fast. He makes a show of sticking the pink muscle into the froth before swallowing a few mouthfuls. The bearded man laughs though his face screws up in disgust, he sounds like distant thunder after the rain had stopped, No One laughs with him, his lips splitting as they spread open over his teeth.

“I’m surprised you haven’t asked.” No One grins and takes a few further swallows.

“The girl? I figure it’s a man’s business what or who he does.”

“Not a bit curious?” No One jabs him with the handled edge of his spoon before sticking it back in his mouth. Rainier shrugs as he stacks their empty bowls together, No One has left a dented cube of carrot sitting in a puddle in his, so he slots his own underneath. It doesn’t feel right to pry into someone’s business; that’s what Blackwall had taught him.

“I forgot her name.” He leaned in closely to whisper. “There I was, balls deep, and I just couldn’t remember it.”

“Makers balls, man.” Rainier chuckles. He crosses his arms over his chest as his head leans back to rest against the wall. “We’ve all been there,” He adds with a nudge, “Can’t imagine a girl getting into bed with a man who doesn’t give his name.”

No One raises his eyebrow and stares at Rainier before the man scoffs and shakes his head. Blackwall had been different, even then he had only slept with a few women in that time and they were all rented.

He glances away after a few seconds; too ashamed to look in the other man’s eyes. As if he could see that he had used a dead man’s name as an alias, and another fake one on top of that to get women into bed. Thom thought for a moment if No One had bought women just like he had, but he couldn’t imagine the man holding down anything to give him a wage.

He locks eyes across the room with a familiar face. it doesn’t take long to recognise the Tevinter robes swirling about the man, and Thom frowns in his thought, he can’t remember seeing Dorian enter the tavern this morning. But it’s a welcome distraction from the nervous churn in his belly.

A low whistle and another prod in his side and he’s distracted for long enough that Dorian disappears.

“I thought you liked blondes.” He snorts. His muddied feet are resting high on the table, and the cold wetness of the pottage seeps into the cracked mud of his heels. It leaves brown smudges as he shifts to get comfier, sighing as his shoulders pop.

Thom wonders why he doesn’t wear shoes, with winter settling in even the elves wore thicker and longer covers for their feet. The thought turns in his belly that the man might not even be able to afford them. His clothes were clearly old and worn, looking like they were sewn by a man without any fingers. Or, his mind supplies readily, No One is an elf himself or partly one. He doesn’t think it’s polite to ask in such a public place.

“What?” Thom said; his mind having wandered too far.

“The Tevinter, you fancy your chances?”

“No. That’s- No, I know him.” He stumbles with laughter.

“Really?” No One’s mouth splits into a grin. He had tried to get the man’s attention when he had spent a few hours in the library, flipping his way through senseless books and drinking. “Think you could…” He whistles in a wavering pitch and winks at Rainier. He laughs full heartedly at first, thinking he’s taking the piss but the blonde’s expression sings differently. He coughs awkwardly to stem his voice.

“He isn’t really the kind of man to take advice from me.” He shrugs.

“Pity, no?” No One leans far enough forward to pick at the grime under his toenails. The constant clicking grinds under Thom’s skin but he chews his tongue to quell it. His mind ventures to thoughts of Dorian who is prideful and egotistical, underneath No One; who’s the same except his vanity seems to be entirely built on himself becoming nothing.

Thom thinks back to Bull’s words and chews his upper lip, and thinks further back to the words that Blackwall once said to him. The kindness and courtesy that he gave him all those years ago. After all that’s what he’d set out to do with No One; break down his walls, and to help him come back from whatever had graced him with an empty name.

They sit in a comfortable silence watching as the tavern bustles around them. The young lad Sutherland gives Thom a wave as he passes through; they had spent a few days sparring before Rainier came to light. He’s thankful that the company leader still sees him as he did before. No One throws him a grin and sucks on his tongue when he notices it.

Perhaps Rainier wasn’t such a boot licker after all. What little No One knew about the other man’s friends didn’t exactly tell him they were anything close to nobility, and only idiots and nug chasers kissed the grime of a shit shoveler’s shoe.

His complimentary thoughts stop as a scout ventures in, tosses a salute over his head and tells Rainier he’s been requested by the Inquisitor. The man all but falls over himself to get out of his chair.

“Run along Rainier.” No One shrugs. He doesn’t vocalise a reply but tells Cabot at the other end of the tavern to bring him another drink.

No One is soured, of course he is. He sits there with his feet high and his head low, twiddling his hair or picking his nails; the time passes slowly either way. It’s an hour before someone sits beside him, drink in hand.

“You know Thom then?” He says; it’s the young lad from before, dark hair, a wisp of something growing from his chin.

“I know Rainier.” No One takes the half full tankard the man bought with him, swallows it in consecutive gulps and drops it down empty.

“There’s- There’s a difference?” He looks worried to say the least.

“What’s your name?”

“Sutherland, Ser, Donal Sutherland.”

“See now, I know Sutherland. He brought me half an ale and knows a guy called Thom.” No One pauses and waves the empty tankard lazily. “Donal though, I’m wondering if he likes three fingers up his arse or two.” He wiggles them eagerly as he leans in closer, and sucks his lower lip into his mouth as Sutherland draws back. “What’s your name again?”

“Sutherland, Ser. Just… Sutherland.”

No One winks at him as leans back in his seat. Sutherland nods and swallows before venturing back up the tavern stairs, he’s not entirely sure what has just happened, but he’s sure as the void not going back to ask.

When the sun starts to sink behind the mountain tops No One heads back to his perch, accompanied by two bottles of whiskey; courtesy of Rainier. He had hoped that the other man would return to the tavern. Rainier had something about him, something foreign but homely in his presence, and it was pleasant to settle in. It was an echo of a life he had passed, something there that he had missed. Like the detailing on the hem of a dress, or a nick in a man’s greave.

He doesn’t see him in the stables as he passes, and swiftly steps into his own abode to wait out the moonlight.

The whiskey sits well in his gut after warming its way down his throat, both bottles keeping the chill away. No One has been clearing some of the rubble from beside his home, he steps easier over the broken bricks and the less damaged ones are piling up to make a fire pit. Small enough to fit in the little nook he has created, but large enough to warm himself.

Pulling out the embroidery from the pillows he has gathered distracts him from reading the books he had stolen. They might serve as a good footrest, but he needs them for their words not their service.

He pulls one loose, _Those that Roam the Nights by Malindé Embroiue_ , it’s full of shit. Most of it talks about creatures that stir in forests or under the sea; using the dark night sky for cover or stealth and not because they are manipulated by it. No One reads it all anyway. He believes on the off chance that a lunar beast is mentioned that it will all be worth it. It’s the smallest scrap of optimism he can cling on to, it holds better hope than _Release the Feasting Beast of the East; A Cautionary Fable by L. Simion_.

No One’s eyes droop as his reads the swirling letters. It’s a signed Orlesian copy and it would be valuable if it hadn’t become alcohol stained and a quarter ripped out for wiping. He doesn’t want to fall asleep tonight, Rainier had been so accommodating in the morning and to ruin it with nightmares would be unthinkable.

The warmth of the sun reaches him as his eyelids close; he’s too weak to hold them open any longer. No One’s fade experience is the same, finger like branches clutching at his muddied uniform and the blanket he’s using as a robe. His boots, once polished now dirtied with shit and grime. He can feel his throat swell with fear and his sweat and tears washing away the dirt on his cheeks.

Words echo like a lover’s whisper. Traitor, bastard, thief, coward. He’s afraid, and he knows, every time he knows. Wide heavy footfalls with five claws and scabbing fur, a snarl and a lunge. One ear is full of mossy soil, the other with cries of agony and shouts of fear.

No One wakes with old tarp tangled in his fingers. Half of his home is now blanketed across his back and the room is ruined; he must have pulled it down in his sleep. He does his best to reconstruct his hideaway, he has to fold some of the sheets to cover up where he had torn it with his thrashing. It works eventually.

Thom’s meeting with the Inquisitor had not been so urgent nor as beneficial as he had imagined. At first he thought it may have been disciplinary, he didn’t know why, but with his record he wouldn’t put anything passed himself.

Trevelyan had been finishing up with Solas before taking Rainier into the War Room. His age always gave a certain sadness to his features, his eyelids were too heavy and if not for the high collars Thom would be able to see the sagging of his neck.

“Josephine requested that I consult you, Rainier, before I made a decision.” He began, he closed to door with an audible clunk. Thom noted the table was covered in a fine satin, the pieces underneath creating peaks and divots over the gargantuan wooden stump. Goddard still couldn’t trust him, a tactical man all his life and it showed.

“A decision, My Lord?” Thom felt like he should salute or bow. The Inquisitor’s presence always making men nervous with his long strides and towering height.

“About Sera.” He paused and rolled the ache from his shoulders. “Her and the Red Jennies bring little if anything at all to the Inquisition, she has made her detest for noblemen well known, and the pranks she pulls are sullying the Inquisition’s pride and it’s name.”

“That’s unworthy, Ser, she’s a good girl, and she means well-”

“I want you to plead her case, not as her friend but as a soldier and an agent of the Inquisition.” He breathed in deep through his crooked nose and sighed audibly. Thom doesn’t know what to say, not because he can’t think of anything, but because he can think of a thousand reasons and more. They run through his mind and blur into a hundred and then a dozen.

It doesn’t take a scholar to notice how the men leave the room thrice as tense as they entered it. Thom apologises to Josephine as he passes her and returns to his own chambers. He knows at the stables he’ll spook the horses with his anger, and Trevelyan had sworn him to silence over their conversation so the tavern was not an option.

He doesn’t know whether he’s done enough to persuade him that Sera should stay. Sometimes her pranks had been too much; he’d seen Solas clearing lizards from his bed roll a few times and they both knew who put them there. Goddard could be stubborn and elitist at times, like all noble men were, and Thom respected him for his decision making and quick wit, but this? He had spent the last few years of his life walking a liar’s fence with Grey Warden on one side and monster on the other, too afraid to fall completely one way and forge a true and solid path. How was he supposed to choose now, after all this time. To fall as an agent of the Inquisition, or as a loyal friend. Thom’s belly churned with the question of why he couldn’t be both.

Thom’s gut curdled further as he questioned why Goddard was pushing this now. Was it a test of faith? Or was it because of who he was and what he had done. He wondered if all of his friends and acquaintances were in danger of being re-evaluated just because of their association.

He rolled onto his front and sighed into one of the pillows, things would have been so much simpler if he had just carried the lie a little longer. Or if the Inquisitor had simply left him to rot in Val Royeaux. Thom flipped himself over again and wriggled to get comfortable. Other things had happened since then, like meeting No One in that cell, whether that turned out to be good or not was yet to be decided. The man had charm, even if it was layered in filth and grime.


	6. Someone like Her

“You buy a man pottage and then avoid him for days.” No One snorted, he leans on the open stable doors as if he’s waiting for an invitation to come inside. “Was it my table manners?”

“I didn’t think you had any,” Rainier bubbles out his laughter and sets down the iron chisel he’s been carving with. He had started another rocking horse; this time a much requested dragon. After all the tales of the Inquisitor slaying half a dozen of them, almost all of the children wanted to ‘slay’ one too. Thom hopes they don’t intend to destroy it once it’s finished, maybe he could persuade them that taming a dragon is more fun than slaughtering it.

The griffon remains yet unfinished, he had been too furious to attempt to add the finer details, afraid he would make a mistake and waste valuable paint or ruin the piece. Trevelyan had riled him with their private conversation, Sera was young and free and happy. She worked hard for the Inquisition, and he couldn’t count the amount of times, on all his limbs and digits, that an arrow had fizzled past his head to surround a group of Red Templars in tempest fire and piercing shrapnel.

“But it’s not that.” The small chuckles die down as he stretches his legs out. His back is beginning to ache from hunching over to work on a wing for the toy.

No One remains silent as he enters the barn, sitting down on the curled wood shavings that Rainier had piled up. He did it on purpose really, he thought it would be better than scooping them onto the floor.

“The Inquisitor, he-” Thom stops and bites his cheek, for a moment he wonders why he felt the need to blurt it out. Sworn to secrecy; he couldn’t say anything about their words. But that didn’t mean it hadn’t been eating away at him for days. Sera had noticed that he had been acting cagey, he might have been able to fool half of Thedas as Blackwall but this was different. Sera was a friend, he loved her undeniably, and if Liddy were here today he couldn’t help but imagine they’d be the two extra cards up a man’s sleeve.

He could hear Master Dennet tending to the Inquisitor’s armoured charger, a bloody good gift from Orlais for sure, and the old man listened even though he said he didn’t. Gossip was the one thing the man stood above, but Trevelyan had saved his farm, his livelihood, his family, he held the old horse master’s loyalty in a gilded grip.

“He did what?” No One leaned back and swiped his tongue over his iron teeth. “Decided you weren’t worth the life you pledged to him? Noblemen are fickle like that.”

“How do you know about that? You weren’t even there.” He leans back, folds his arms, and wiggles his nose at the blonde man.

“I asked around.” He angles his head down to stare right into Rainier’s eyes. They’re bright drooping things, aged more through stress and fatigue that the years he’s lived through. He glances away and sniffs, picking at the dirt under his nails. “A lot of people liked to talk about Rainier. They said nicer things about you than you did, of course they were still insulting, can’t sing the praises of men like us.” No One pauses and swallows, _men like us_ , it’s a compliment to himself and less so for Rainier. He grits his teeth in reprimanding self-loathing and strains out a quick question; “What made you give him your life?”

“He saved me.”

“He _bought_ you.” No One snaps with the grace of an angry dracolisk, and whips his face back to the other man. He knows it’s harsh, deep in his gut, but that’s what soldiers were, men bought by richer men to die in wars meant to bring those rich men more power. In his mind he wants Rainier to accept that, but his throat tightens further at his own selfishness. He doesn’t gain anything from metaphorically shitting on Rainier, loses something almost indefinitely.

Rainier’s face screws up at those words, and feels his fingers tighten where they now rest in his lap. He huffs out a breath as he smoothes out the wrinkles of his breeches. It’s easy to remember how quickly an outstretched palm can turn into an armoured fist, and he remembers Blackwall never quite making the change from the first to the latter. There’s a trick in his mind that he’s seen the Inquisitor do just that.

No One looks away in shame, and it’s the first time in a long time that he’s ever felt sorry for something. He doesn’t say it, he’s terrible at apologising, and he always has been. No One feels a mark shy of cowardly with the way his teeth bite down upon themselves, and he can’t tell whether the copper tang is blood or iron.

But Thom’s not mad at the man for speaking out of turn, for being cruel in this moment when he could have been kind. It’s the burning truth of honesty which stabs at his breast and belly, because he knows, somehow deep inside, that the Inquisitor might have expected him to do just that. Perhaps if he had whistled and danced his way out of the Grand Hall with the grace of a jester, the Inquisitor would have removed his freedom, if he had offered anything less than everything he had.

Trevelyan might have seen more honour in him than he did himself, perhaps he just saw another heavy shield carried by another heavy man. Whatever the Herald was, he wasn’t an idiot, and letting one soldier away would crumble a dozen proud men and women. But granting him a choice on whether to serve? Letting him pledge his life? That inspired a hundred and more.

“Why did you ask about the trial? Hadn’t you heard enough in Val Royeaux?” Rainier said, his voice stops No One from slinking off to lick his self inflicted wounds.

“I wanted to know what kind of man you were.”

“And?”

“Didn’t think you were a fucking carver that’s for sure.” He snorts, and feels his belly twitch at Rainier’s upturn of lips. He rolls his shoulders and grunts at the ache in his back, he thinks it might be bruised from the thrashing but he hasn’t taken his rags off in over a fortnight to check. He might just be old, it’s not as if his werewolf affliction came with a guiding tome, age though, he knew about that.

Silence falls over them, accompanied by the huff of horses and the gentle thud of Rainier’s repetitive carving. The wing is almost blocked out, and he had set wooden rockers out under weighted iron to bend early this morning.

It’s comfortable as they both sit there, Rainier asks him to pass a few tools over and he does it without thinking. He gets it wrong a few times because he doesn’t know the difference between a skew and a fishtail, he learns with ease as Rainier is quick to explain. Carving and woodwork was a commoners practice, he had started when he was young. Whittling down scraps of firewood and broken branches into dolls or miniature swords. He had even impressed a few girls in the village he grew up in with it all.

No One clicks his toenails together every time Thom’s chisel hits the wood, a constant rhythm that passes the time. He watches the coming and going of people from inside of the barn, he sees a thousand faces with a thousand expressions. A girl gifting freshly picked flowers to another in return for a shy kiss, a few maids beating dust out of rugs across the yard, two men carrying three yard strips of lumber for construction. He wonders if any glance in his direction, and catalogue the man sitting in the barn beside a woodworker.

Thom can see an inch of dark hair growing from No One’s scalp when he takes a moment to wipe the sweat from his hands. It makes his moustache look stranger, one side thicker than the other with the scar that bisects his mouth, and it’s long too. Too bloody long, Thom thinks, it falls past his chin and gets trapped in the wiry horsehair of his clothes.

He remembers when he first grew the beard he wears every day. Itchy and awkward, tapering it into two pronged points had been more hard work that he had expected. Growing out the length across his head had been easier, even if sweat stuck it to his forehead and it fell into his eyes. He settled on oil to slick it back, cheap and simple, No One just wedges it behind one ear and lets it fall where it wants to. Though his hair is matted enough that it just stays where it is.

Perhaps he’s partly Dalish, Thom thinks before he can stop himself, he remembers frightful tales of how filthy the forest dwellers supposedly were. Then he remembers how that had all been biased lies from prejudiced lips, swollen lips after a few good right hooks and a pommel or two if he had a sword on him. Thom uses the handle of the chisel to push his own hair behind his ear when No One catches him staring. He scratches an itch away from the corner of his jaw with the tool as well.

It’s a minor blessing disguised as an interruption when a scout delivers a few letters into Thom’s hands. No One flashes the young lad a closed grin and tosses a wink his way, the man bites his tongue, nods, and leaves with a smile tickling his lips. He makes a note of the curling red hair that peeks out from his hood and the deep amber of his eyes, how his easy jog tells him he has muscles trained for stamina over strength.

“Love letters?” No One grins and flicks the wax sealed papers.

“Hah, un-bloody likely.” He laughs, the wax is sealed with a blank stamp, most likely a spoon or a bottle pressed down onto the melted liquid just to keep it closed. One has the seal of the chevalier printed into bright yellow wax, and it makes No One’s breath fall unsteady and his eyes prickle at the recognition. He blinks it away and settles the tightness of muscles in his jaw.

Thom pulls at the seal and sighs at the content, he had hoped that an old friend in the Orlesian order might know where the men he had betrayed would be hiding. He got little more than an apology and a message never to contact her again, she had a fierce reputation and a jealous husband nowadays.

“The men I led against the Calliers, I’m trying to find them.” He shrugs as he thumbs open the rest of the letters, there’s no new information there. “I wanted to apologise to them, they are where they are because of me and I want to fix that.”

“I wouldn’t hide amongst the Chevaliers if I was a wanted man.” No One shrugged and pulled the perfectly scripted letter from his hands. “Dame Olivie.” He whispers the name, the letter lacks a house name or even a tell tale sign of whether she was from a noble merchant’s house, or a lower branch related to one Marquis or another. No One’s stomach settles as he picks through the names of who he knew in another life, never had there been a Dame Olivie.

“A good woman,” he takes the letter back to stack it with the others beside him, “I knew her back in my soldiering days.” He chuckles and fingers open the Chevalier’s letter once more. It’s written in Orlesian, and No One picked through it like a child finding their favourite sweets in a much too familiar tin. He tosses them into the fire behind him without a second thought.

“Oh?”

“I was young and care free, she was strong and proud.” He pauses and his eyes take on a glaze of memories. “There was a time I thought I might marry her, I didn’t want to get married back then. But to have someone like her beside me, any man would.”

“You marry a woman for her cunt and that’s exactly what you’ll get.” No One snorts, he runs his fingers through his hair to push it back from his forehead. The ends tangle about his digits and he doesn’t bother to separate the strands.

“Sounds like there’s a story in that.” Rainier raises his eyebrows and jabs at the outer curve of No One’s thigh.

“Drinks on a bastard’s honour and I’ll tell you about her.” No One says, he stands from his seat atop the table and begins the short journey to the tavern. He doesn’t check to see if Rainier follows him, but he hears the clatter of tools being shifted and moved into their leather casing. Thom doesn’t necessarily want to drink in the tavern, not with the issue of Sera and Trevelyan to think about. But whatever mead or ale he drinks will blur his thoughts enough to allow him to forget about it for a few hours.

Thom buys the tankards as he wordlessly promised, and they’re both four ales deep before No One tells his tale of lost love. Rainier’s enamoured by it, he laughs at the crudeness of his story, and wears a sad smile when it gets deeper and he feels pity in his belly. He hopes it’s pity, No One’s been talking about tasting between her thighs and letting his tongue venture further back to taste a specific somewhere else, and he’s seen the man’s tongue. It’s far too easy to imagine.

It’s an age old tale, she was betrothed, his boss, and wouldn’t been seen with him in the light of day. No One was in love; probably. Rainer doesn’t ask how it ends, it’s not a good ending from the expression he wore and the lack of wasting across his finger. Thom’s brain is too deep in alcohol to wonder why he stopped wearing gloves when the weather is getting colder quicker.

Three more ales each and both men are laughing heartily, Rainier’s cheeks are ruddy with alcohol and No One’s still acting sober. He feels slightly guilty about avoiding the other man, it hadn’t been any fault of his, and despite appearances his company was tremendous.

No One carries the next two tankards from the bar top to the table, and Thom excuses himself for a piss outside. He’s got a ridiculous smile on his face, and it pulls so hard at his cheeks that his teeth glitter in the candlelight.

He catches a glimpse of curling fiery hair before it sits down beside him, the man’s cheeks mimicking the slightly wet strands which stick to his neck. The man doesn’t say much but leans in to grab at No One’s face and presses their lips together, he tastes of sour apples and heavy wine.

“I’m Caldwell,” He murmurs, his breath is a hot as the palms curling around the back of No One’s neck, “I’m clean, and you’re filthy.” He kicks his leg over to straddle No One’s thighs and arches his back until their chests are flush together. Rainier’s at the tavern door. He can feel the man’s erection pressing against his stomach and the roll of his hips, the steel of an armoured wrist across his neck.

Someone snaps to close the void damned door, that all the cold is creeping in, and No One’s eyes watch Rainier as he sends him a limp wave before he turns to stagger out into the evening. He thinks he should feel guilty about it, but it’s hardly his fault, Rainier could have joined them if he had wanted to.

Thom returns to the stables, too drunk to risk walking too his rooms at this hour. Even after the eleven months he had lived in Skyhold the castle was still beyond his sober mind. He shuts almost everything up, and climbs into the furs he has piled high, realising far too late that he’s left his boots on and his coat smells like ale and sweat. He yawns loudly and shoves his hands into his breeches for the warmth.

Tomorrow, he thinks, he’ll talk to Trevelyan about Sera. He’ll try to persuade him once more that she wants to help the Inquisition, that there’s good soldiers out there despite what they look like or how they act. Sera’s one of them, Solas, Dorian, and No One are too. He grins with as much effort he can in his half asleep state, and wiggles until he’s more comfortable before his eyes slip closed.

Caldwell, as it turns out, isn’t the shy blushing red head with arguably good stamina that No One had thought him to be. He asks No One to fuck him with his rags on, he wants to feel the scratch and burn of desperate clothing, he wants to smell the salted tang of sweat of a man who hasn’t washed in days.

He spends a great deal of time almost sobbing into No One’s groin that the blonde is borderline soft again when they actually get into something. That is after he’s begged No One to piss on his chest and across his mouth, which he does and the sheets are so messed that they rut on the floor instead.

Caldwell is kicked out of No One’s cupboard-like chantry brother room as soon as the man comes. He lets his erection wilt and wraps himself carefully enough that he can step into the night to reach the public bathhouse, the sopping sheets are left outside another’s door on the way. He spreads sludge, powder, and wrapping leaves into his hair as he sits in the heated water. A stolen brush rubbing the length of his body raw; dozens of naked bodies have pressed against him in his time and not one had ever made his skin crawl so much as Caldwell had.

No One plucks the available looking glass to make sure his work has been done cleanly before sinking under the water to wash it out. The bath he’s in is large enough that the water doesn’t visibly turn brown from the mud and dirt that had formed boots across his feet. He’s thankful enough for that when a few other people come in hoping for a more private bathing time in the late evening hours.

His feet are muddied by the time he reaches the stables, he wants to see if Rainier will join him for another drink or two, maybe a game of cards. But as he pushes on the doors he’s greeted by the resistance of a wooden bar holding them shut. Faint snoring wafts out the upper levels and it’s clear exactly who is in there. He heads back to the tavern, wondering why he had risked the journey from one end of the fortress to the other just to see if Rainier wanted a drink. No One knows why, he has said the words himself; he knows Rainier.

Knows the man has friends in the Chevaliers, friends in the Inquisition, friends spread across Thedas. Thom seems to have a thousand friends. But his toes curl when he thinks Rainier might only have the one.

Cabot sets a whiskey in front of him on the promise that Thom will pay, as he always does, and a bowl of cooling food is set in front of him too.

“Leftovers.” Cabot shrugs and turns to serve the group of guardsmen at the end of the bar. No One eats it quickly, spits out teeth before, clamps them back in after, and leaves a wedge of meat to sit in the puddle of thick broth. He throws his rags back over his head as he hears the commotion upstairs, a string of loud curses from a nasal weepy voice. There’s a clatter of boots walking down the stairs followed by a door splintering it’s hinges. He spares a glance of a rich robes gliding against the outside wind before he turns back to tavernkeep. Cabot doesn’t give him an answer save another sliver of whiskey.

Cabot padlocks the alcohol shelves before he retires to bed, it isn’t unusual for the tavern to house a few souls for the night. Guardsmen too drunk to make it back to their beds, a grieving widow, or a wounded soldier too injured to return to the healer’s rooms. No One watches them sleep and makes his way around the room to swallow the swill and dregs of old drink.

The sound of buckles, straps, snores, and heavy steps becomes a quiet orchestra in the night, it continues for hours until the sun climbs across the mountain tops. No One had pilfered a fine comb from one of the sleeping guests in the midst of the night, and had spent the time untangling the half dried locks. His hair smelt sour and there’s a tumble weed of crooked and ripped white strands about his feet when he’s finished.

It’s the blonde elf from before who’s the first awake. She’s bundled in layers of mismatched clothes, and hauls a sack and three poorly stitched bags down the stairs. No One watches her go with his dirty feet high on the table beside him, the sleeping patrons stir as the sound of full weighted boots lead the march down the wooden steps, there’s a yelp or two of surprise when a few awaken. He follows her from the tavern, watches her from a distance as she takes a saddled horse and rides out of the fortress. She's almost hidden amongst the horizon when an arrow finds home just before the gates, its shaft adorned with ripped piece of red cloth. 


	7. Fun Last Night

Thom’s not one for heavy drinking, in his youth he could drink men twice his age under the table. Now he realises why it had all been so easy. A few mornings like this and it’ll put you off for a lifetime. He manages to wriggle out of his clothes, passed the blinding agony in his head, and fall back onto the makeshift straw mattress, the cold air is a welcomed blessing across his sweat dried back. He falls back into a slumber within minutes, ignoring that he knows it’s probably closer to half day than dawn.

He’s lucky that he wakes for the second time before the stable doors are knocked off their hinges. Master Dennet is red faced and cursing as he pushes past Thom to get the shoeing tools, some of the dracolisks have been kicking their pen doors in frustration. He returns to bed after a lengthy piss and bathes in the sunlight until his headache lessens. Meeting with Trevelyan had been today’s plan, to maybe calm the man’s anger over Sera. But with this throb in his temple it’ll have to wait another day, or at least a few more hours.

The third time he wakes is probably the least pleasant. Most of the pain has gone, his hangover filtering in with over-resting, but the wet slap of a heavy cloth over his eyes is alarming to say the least.

“I figured I’d wait until the girls had gone.” The voice tinged with laughter said. Thom pulls the rag off his face and uses it to wipe away the sweat across his brow and chest.

“What girls?” He croaked. Maker he felt like shit, ale always made him sweat.

“Kitchen maids, cleaning maids, one was a scout who came and shooed them off.” No One picks his nails as he counts them off. Thom can’t even force his tongue to manage a sentence properly, and signals with his hand for the man to carry on. “They were enjoying the view-” He knocks Rainier's knees apart with his bare foot and the man feels the rush of cool air rise between his naked thighs, “-can’t say I disagree.”

“Piss off.” Rainier laughs and drags the furs across his lap. No One sits heavily beside him, leaning back against the boarded walls and wriggling until Rainier’s forced to grab for the blankets before they slip off. He’s got half a nugskin full of mead in hand, which Rainier has to politely decline, how No One is still drinking is beyond him. Flashes of the blonde being ridden by that scout last night are at the fore front of his mind, and he’s glad he’s still alcohol soaked, his cock less so. “Have fun last night?”

“The company was good, I wouldn’t mind doing it all again.”

“Can’t have been that good if you’re here.” Thom sniffs. His throat is dryer than the bloody Western Approach, he grabs for the mead before being handed a tankard of mostly clear liquid.

“Water, there’s some elfroot powder in there too.” He stares at Thom as he sloppily drinks half of it, some spilling out over the rim and down his tangling beard. He doesn’t correct him when he realises that Rainier is talking about Caldwell, that had easily been one of his worst nights to date, including the time he spent with the Piss merchant’s niece who tried to split his belly after he refused to work solely for her.

No One figures if Rainier was interested he’d have made more of a point about it all, a side shot of jealousy and a sliver of disgust. Maybe, he thinks, Rainier isn’t the type to mess about behind someones back. If he were he wouldn’t be the first man otherwise taken to share a bed with him. Aristocracy had always been avoided, but men unhappy with their wives if only because the other paths had never been explored? Men who wanted to be wives on the odd occasion? Even men who just wanted to bugger someone at least vaguely feminine.

However Rainier’s morals affected him it didn’t really matter, he was feeling oddly soft in the midday light. He chalked it up to being clean for the first time in a long while. He fingered the arrow that he’d wedged under his clothes, perhaps Rainier and the elf had split if she’d left so suddenly.

“Thanks.” Rainier hiccups out between belches. No One shrugs it off and swallows the rest of his mead.

“You have fun last night?” No One mimics the mans earlier question. He points to the scattered clothes still cast about the room, Rainier frowns at the question and honestly he can’t even remember taking his clothes off never mind if someone had helped him to it. Maybe that’s why the girls had been giggling. He sneaks a peak at his cock under the furs, and prods his way around his bollocks and there’s nothing foreign dried there.

No One’s grinning when Rainier turns back to him, shoving down the furs again with a tinge of red to his cheeks. Bloody idiot grasping for another eyeful. Laughter rumbles out over his beard as he pushes him away, No One falls with a thud to his elbow but remains undisturbed by it all.

“Bastard.” He stands on dizzy legs to clutch the blankets over his cock. “Get out of here.” He manages to get his breeches up to his knees before the furs fall off the curve of his arse, No One still having made no move to leave. He’s glad for what he can see, the black and greying hairs curl around the sides of Rainier's thighs, travel up and into the crease and around the cheeks atop his legs. Thin white scars still hide amongst them, and his frame sags outward around his gut. No One reaches to palm at his cock through the layers before the man tightens the breech laces around his waist and the sight is lost. He commits the image to memory before bowing his leave.

Thom swallows down the rest of the powder water mix and has to endure the sight of three giggling women trying to explain why they were creeping up into the hayloft in the middle of the day. His ego likes the boost nonetheless, and it’s definitely thrilling to know that even approaching his mid forties he’s still appealing to some people.

He gives himself a soldier’s wash with the rag No One left behind, and promises he’ll use his own wash room before he meets the Inquisitor. He should look his best after all. It’s a bit of an embarrassing stab to the belly when he realises that the fresh scent of Andraste’s Grace and Dawn Lotus had been from the man who smelt like week old sweat and stagnant ale just yesterday.

No One takes himself behind the stables and waits until Rainier leaves, he shimmies his trousers around his thighs and sits in some of the less scratchy hay. He works from muscle memory, letting his hand slip between his thighs and cup his bollocks, the other gently fingering the tip of his cock. He starts with slow strokes until he’s hard enough, and spits in his hand a few times to stem the friction. He’s gentle toward himself until he’s leaking and wet enough to thrust into his own tightened fist. No One comes with a flustered grunt and doesn’t really bother to hide it, leaving the white streaks over the loose hay bales. He fools himself into thinking it’s just because Rainier’s got a pretty arse, but he had a pretty arse back in Val Royeaux.

He waits until his legs aren’t so numb until he leaves, picking up a few stones here and there, and trading them until he finds a proper gem. He sits in front of the tavern and scratches the chipped thing down with a smoother stone. It filled his palm when it was jagged and rough, and No One thinks it will be half a thumb’s length when he’s done. People mostly ignore him as they pass, one even threw a couple of coppers at his feet as they went in, and he gives those to the next patron who enters the tavern. No One recognises a man leaving, in deep red robes with a golden accent, and stumbles after him.

“Dorian, yes?” He bows too low on unstable legs, placing himself between the man and the steps up to his destination. Rainier hadn’t told him his name, but asking after the ‘ _Vint_ ’ almost always pointed to Dorian.

“I am, and you are?”

“No One,” he doesn’t let Dorian’s scowl deter him, “I’d buy you a drink, or dozen.” He shrugs.

“I don’t know you-”

“So get to know me, Rainier will vouch for me.” He pauses and shrugs when Dorian makes no attempt of acknowledging the name drop, “I like drinking and fucking, and I heard you do to.” He makes an obvious motion of looking the man up and down.

“Excuse me.” Dorian snaps and pushes his way passed him, making his way to the grand hall, No One lets himself stumble into a passing guardsman and shrugs his way out of an apology. He lets the brush off filter out of his mind and takes his place by the tavern once more.

It’s a long while before the stone is whittled down, and he’s got half a silver of coppers scattered at his feet by the time he has finished it. He passes the money to the scout who makes an attempt of shooing him away and he leaves to find Rainier, the perfectly rounded pebble is for him. Along with the arrow and tattered cloth he’s had shoved inside his rags all day.

Thom had spent two whole hours preening, like he used to do when he was back in Orlais. Even as a soldier he had been taught how to don make-up, how to style hair and shave cleanly. He’d cut his own hair, trimming away the straggled ends and shaping his beard into finer points. He pinches the greying strands of between his fingers and rubs them together, he had heard of people who used ink to dye their hair. It’s cheaper than the fancy plant mixtures Orlesians use, but it doesn’t stain as well. He bites his thumb as he thinks of asking No One, the man knew how to make hair lighter, surely doing the opposite was just as easy.

He scoffs at himself in the mirror, his chest hair was dotted with white, as were the hairs under his chin and across his arms. Dyeing all that would be near impossible, and his hair would only grow lighter as the years wore on. Thom dresses in some of his cleaner tunics, and throws his old coat on over anyway, would applying some sweet scent be too much? He smells like soap anyway, and it’s not as if the Inquisitor hasn’t met him drenched in sweat and blood.

The grand hall is filled with nobles and it’s evident what is happening, another judgement, and Rainier’s too far back to see who’s on trial. He wonders if anyone else felt like this when he was standing before the throne. A massive intimidating thing made of the finest materials, another gift from Emperor Gaspard, with large spread wings made of gold and the bowls often lit with embers. At certain angles the golden feathers seemed to sprout from the Inquisitor’s back, with the stained glass creating an entire spectrum of tones across his skin. It was no wonder he seemed other worldly.

The man is dragged off in chains, Thom doesn’t know him, and he doesn’t know the next woman who is brought from the prisons either. Varric tells him it’ll be a while. With every thing else going on it’s easy to forget that common crimes still went on, stealing horses, unsanctioned brawls, pickpocketing, and all done in Skyhold demanded the judgement of Andraste’s Herald.

Thom squeezes his way from the hall and takes himself back to the stables, he had spent enough time wallowing in his hangover, he had work to do.

His sword, made from silverlite, had been one of many that Goddard had told Harrit to craft for him. Granted he gave Bull a dawnstone axe, and Vivienne had some of the finest quality fabrics sewn to make her robes. It had been the only thing that made him look like a Warden that hadn’t been melted and recast. There were others, a dragon bone sword, an everite shield, they screamed wealth and it was obvious how people ranked in the Inquisition.

The silverlite sword was sharpened carefully, sheathed, and then wrapped back up in a Grey Warden’s emblazoned flag. His shields, all three, were polished and shined, with the dents buffed out. Then his armour endured the same treatment, and the sun was making it’s way down across the horizon before Thom had finished. A few children had poked their heads into the barn to watch him, a brave girl had pulled herself onto the stool beside him and kicked her legs in long arching motions.

“Is the bird legs ready?” She whispered, cupping her hands around her mouth and leaning up to talk into his ear.

“The bird legs?” He said. She pointed across the room at the griffon, Thom let out a wisp of a chuckle and turned back to her, “Soon.” She grinned and slipped from her chair and ran towards the group of children who scattered within a minute, leaving him smiling like a sad old fool. At least he was good for something.

No One interrupted his thoughts as he came in, bundled in thick rags which swept upwards over his head. Thom looks past him to see if it was raining, otherwise the hood made no sense. Perhaps he was cold? He ignored himself and turned on his stool to welcome the man in.

“No One.” Thom said with an upwards tilt in his voice. He felt a bit silly calling him that, it had been the first time he’d voiced it out loud to the man. All the other times he had just avoided it, never seeing the man around when he was in a group meant he never had to pick him out from a bunch. “Fancy a game of Wicked Grace?” He could delay his meeting with the Inquisitor a while longer.

“I have little to bet Rainier, and I have never played before.” He snorted and set himself down beside the man, dropping a satchel at his feet. He flicked back his hood and scratched at the edges of his smooth shaven jaw line.

“And you know it’s a betting game?”

“All games are, no?” He grinned and nudged Rainier’s shoulder. “Whether it’s _Un, Dos, Tres, Momia_ or _Dix Mille_ , it is a bet all the same. Something to say I can outwit any man who plays against me, lest they trip on their own tongue.” He laughs. Thom feels a stab of a memory fresh in his mind at those words, but it’s washed away under the man’s Antivan. Was he a Crow? Bull picked him out as an assassin months ago, but surely one would not linger for so long.

Thom fiddles with the edges of his tunic and then stretches out his back. He’s not particularly tired after having slept most of the day, and his nerves were cut to ribbons with the thought of challenging Trevelyan once more about Sera. A game would do well to settle him.

“Teach me how to play Rainier.” He said, his smile soft and gentle across such jagged features. It distorts Thom’s thoughts, it makes him look deep into the grey irises under mismatched drooping lids. He conjures up a dozen compliments for it’s abnormal hue before he squashes them down with a nod.

The cards are a worn old pack that Rainier had owned for years. He bought them some time after he became Blackwall, from a barkeep who had confiscated them from her gambling husband. She apologised for the ale stains and their daughter’s scribbled letters which marked a couple, her husband was a conman after all. Rainier had kept the husband’s legacy alive for a few turns, and then felt guilty for several nights after. He splashed ale over all of them then.

True to his word No One didn’t know how to play Wicked Grace, even the easiest Free Marcher version. He stumbled with his cards, and his face was as painted as those fancy high ceilings you could find in any royal household. They play for old wood shavings, and Thom can’t help but laugh when No One is down to his last three curls.

“All or nothing Rainier.” He grinned and flicked them into the centre of their desk. Thom matches his bet and moves over his heftier pile. “Emperor High.” He adds as if it makes any difference, with Gaspard on the throne people took to playing Emperor over dagger, an awful complement of sorts.

Thom deals as gracefully as he can with his thick fingers, he gets a Seven of Swords and a the Two of Drakes. No One bites his lip and pulls his face into a frown before he can lay down the first three cards. The first he puts down is the Prince of Drakes, the second is the Dagger of Drakes, and the third-

“I fold.” No One presses his cards face down onto the desk and pushes the wood shavings toward Rainier. He picks up the deck and shuffles them quickly, with a natural grace that Thom did not expect. He held the Emperor of Drakes, and it was home to a scribble of a little girl riding the back of the Drake with the Emperor. His heart had stuttered and tumbled, and he felt as if the card was melting into his skin and pulling at his veins.

“Another game?” Rainier asks and doesn’t press the man as to why he folded so early on a promising draw.

“Not tonight.” He said. Thom thinks he sounds stoic and distant all of a sudden, and he knows it isn’t from an early forfeit. If only because that didn’t make sense. “I came to give you this-” he pulls a small red bag out from under the folds of his robes, it’s tied with an old strip of leather looping through awkwardly made holes, “-I’m leaving for a few weeks, I have some business to do near Redcliffe.”

No One watches Rainier unfurl the handmade bag, and pick up the perfect sphere of rock and swipe away it’s dust with his thumb.

“Thank you.” Rainier said. He doesn’t understand why No One keeps giving him these strange chalky rocks, but he knows he’s kept the other two in a jewellery chest in his chambers.

“And, before I forget, your Sweet Lady sent this before she left.” He plucks the arrow from under his rags, and lays it a top the desk beside the small red bag. Thom laughs as he picks up the arrow, Sweet Lady? Thom doesn’t have any kind of lover, especially not one who’d send him an arrow.

“I’ll see you soon Rainier.” No One bows his leave and throws a layer of his clothes up over his head before trundling out into the night. He picks up the satchel he brought with him earlier and heads straight for the gates of Skyhold. Thom waves him off and fingers the pointed tip of the arrow.

He uses candlelight to work on the dragon that’s still taking shape, the flame sometimes reaching to lick the wooden structure when Thom angles it too close. He flicks away the sharper edges and whittles down any uneven curves, small things that can be done in minor light. Thom stills with the small chisel in hand, and glances quickly between the arrow and where the tavern is lit brightly in the courtyard. Guilt swallows him and his mouth turns dry, so far below the tavern he can’t see her room, can’t see whether the lanterns are lit because she’s still afraid of the dark.

His throat grows scratchy and swells with her name wrapped around his tongue. _Sera_.


	8. Wasted Time

Thom doesn’t even bother to throw on his coat as he hurriedly trudges out into the night time chill; he stomps to the tavern and through the rowdy building. Bull makes an attempt to stop him, to buy him a drink, but he ignores it. His focus is a tunnel. It leads him around those who bellow and laugh steadily, all of it a blur, and he pushes open Sera’s door with a dulled thud. It’s empty. A few scraps of things here and there, a drawing of the Inquisitor wetting himself scratched into the wall, but no Sera.

“Hey.” Bull said from behind him. Bloody Qunari is far too quiet. He offers a hand and forces Thom to sit on what was once her bed.

“When- I- How?” Thom stuttered with his hands threaded into his hair. He wasted time with a hangover, he wasted time carving a fucking dragon, and he had wasted time with No One.

“This morning, Boss told her to pack up and go.”

“This morning?” Thom bolts upright and makes a leeway for the exit, he could still catch up to her, bring her back. Bull doesn’t try to stop him, but he’s there with the Inquisitor at the gates moments later. Thom regrets spending the time to throw together a travelling satchel, and to strap himself into his lightest armour. Trevelyan is dressed in a thick robe but Thom can see the collar of his nightgown under it’s heavy neck, and yet he still looks as intimidating as he would in full armoured plate. A score of guards stand aside him, armed and in full uniform. Thom knows he could run them down, the mare he has saddled is a bloody good battering ram when she needed to be.

No One hadn’t intended on getting caught up in a game of cards with Rainier, and he had lost precious hours of sunlight because of it. He had prematurely set his rags over his head to keep away the moons hidden behind the sun’s brightness, but now the sun had fallen behind the mountain tops, and the twin moons outshone her. Ignoring the way it seems to prickle his skin even under his clothes, he marched on through the night. Stopping only to piss, and to gather snow in a nugskin for water when he needed to.

Redcliffe was his destination, or a few hours east of it. There was a family of farmhands who seemed normal at every angle you saw them from, two parents and a gaggle of squawking children. The Pissmonger had set their names in green ink, used only for slavers and necro-merchants.

The children, he thought, may be innocent, perhaps they have no idea of the comings and goings of their household. But it didn’t matter, not to whoever brought the contract. No One felt a slight twinge of guilt at it all, but he reminded himself sorely, that there was always someone worse. One such particular person being the Piss Merchant’s own family, _The Family_ , a group of debt collectors who took children to settle scores. Bred into assassins and forced to cut out their own tongues to prove their loyalty and their silence.

No One was a part of that, The Family, his family, though he was a member of _The Children_. He had been too old when he was recruited to follow the stricter rules, and had thankfully been allowed to keep his tongue in it’s rightful place. On some rare occasions he had met other Children; a woman who took every name of those she killed on her body in ink, and a mage-bard with four masks who could contort his body so well that it was nigh on impossible to see which way he faced. He scrubbed them from his mind and set himself back on his path.

The Frostback Mountains were full of small interlocking caves and tunnels, carved out with the weather or by miners. They were often used for shelter as people travelled up and down the pathways to reach Skyhold. No One found a bed for the night inside one such cave beside a traveller’s caravan, though it’s occupants remained as far from him as they could. He didn’t sleep, he just took the time to rest his aching legs before he began marching again. It would be a few days until the next full moon, and then another week on top of that for the other one to fill.

A carriage driver offered him a ride down the mountain, said he was transporting people up and down the mountain path for a fee. His carriage was empty so picking a few stragglers on his way up and down earned him a little bit extra on the side, even if he couldn’t charge full price.

“Just money?” No One asked, readjusting the satchel he had across his shoulder.

“Are you offering something else?”

“If you’re the kind of man who gives too many coppers for a sovereign.” No One shrugs. The man frowns and waggles his ringed finger at him, it was worth a try, and snaps the reigns to get his horses moving.

“I meant dust.” The driver barks as the carriage begins the journey once more. No One laughs as he fades out of view, he should have pushed a little harder.

No One spends the first moon inching himself into the furthest corner of a cave that he could find. There’s a family of elves in thick druffalo hide coats, with red cheeks laughing about old memories, sitting much closer to the mouth of the cave than he was. One has a shield that No One snaps at them to cover, he’s trying to sleep and the light glittering off the edges is bothering him. They’re happy enough to comply, but he doesn’t mistake the unbuckling of swords as anything other than what it is.

“Do you not sleep shem?” The voice echoes from a few steps away. They had taken turns on watch, keeping an eye on No One and the outer world. He had been flickering his eyes open and closed, he was getting tired but he would be better off falling asleep when nobody was around. He didn’t want more elves on his conscience.

“I’ve slept already.” He grunts, he can feel his body churning even in the darkness. “I’m waiting for dawn so I can navigate down the mountain path.”

“The others tell me you stay yet awake.” She picks up her blade and stands up, stretching her arms high before she steps closer. “Are you a Somniari?” She pauses and waits for an answer, “Tell me if you offer danger to my kin.”

“I’m nothing, No One. Leave me alone.”

“You sound as if you’re in pain, shemlen, are you hurt?” No One turns away and presses himself further into the crevice, with any luck the elf would leave him alone. “Answer me, I won’t be blamed for a shemlen death.”

“Nor I yours.”

“Was that a-”

“Isenni. _Garas_.” A voice hissed from further away. The woman fell back to her family, sitting beside them although glaring directly at him. No One didn’t understand why the word pulled at his chest, he felt a sorrowful desire split over him, and he wanted to exit his crevice and crawl to the elves. His mind was begging him to. Instead he digs his nails into his forearms and wedges himself closer to the wall. Must be the sobriety, he thinks, he had heard stopping the indulgence instantaneously left the body wracked with a high fever and fits.

The night passing was a Maker send, the elves went on their way up, and he continued down. Travelling had always been somewhat of a lonely affair, maybe he’d steal a horse from a rich ponce to get wherever he was going faster. But other than a startled charger on the odd occasion he didn’t really ever have much company.

Truth be told he wasn’t that much of a travelling troop sort of man, loneliness seemed to swarm him like a plague, and it was splitting. Breaking under the force that was Thom Rainier. He paused for a moment and turned to face the direction of Skyhold, then spun back to continue his journey. No One was wasting time again.

“Stand down, Rainier.” Goddard commands, his voice loud and domineering. As if he were addressing an enemy, or a foe in a battle he wished to avoid. Thom’s angry, angrier than he’s been in a long time, but it’s hard to tell exactly who he’s pissed at. Himself? He’s the one who should have tried harder to keep Sera, or even pulled himself out of bed to see the Inquisitor when he had wanted to, or Trevelyan? He’s the one who got rid of her, who had thrown her out to the wolves. Maybe even No One, surely if the man was telling the truth and the arrow was from her, then he must have known that she had left early at dawn. “Rainier I will not ask again.”

Thom grips the reigns tighter in his fists, and the mare shifts her weight. Goddard stomps up to him before he can do anything and pushes the mare’s head to one side. If she bolts it’ll be straight into the stables.

“Are you really contemplating trampling me in the middle of the night.” Trevelyan hisses as he yanks away the reigns from his grip. “Get off the horse.” Thom huffs out a surrender and clambers off, he feels awkward, filled with shame and disappointment and sheer resentment. One of the soldiers takes the horse away, and drops Thom’s stuff in the stables.

“Sera is out there-” He holds his hand up when Trevelyan tries to speak, he shouldn’t have really, not with the way the man’s face seems to sober and harden. “-And you made her go. She came to help the Inquisition, voluntarily, like all of us, and you forced her out because she wasn’t good enough for you.” He breathes in heavily for his nose and out through the gaps in his teeth. “I’m not an idiot, I know it’s your Inquisition, it’s course is the one you chart. But tossing people into the sea just because you can? You’re acting like a bloody tyrant.”

Goddard breaks Thom’s nose. It’s a single punch, aimed well, and angled to make up for the height difference. Thom thinks that it’s bitter irony, Sera always talked about how he punched down on the little people like all the noble fobs do. Trevelyan doesn’t rub his knuckles, or push at his shoulder; he doesn’t give any indication that the motion caused him any pain at all.

“Sera was a loss. She alienated our allies, stole from our friends, played pranks on our guests, humiliated and embarrassed our own staff.” He strokes back the grey hairs on his head and huffs. “The Inquisition does not need her.”

“The Inquisition needs every hand it can get.”

“The Inquisition needs more archers than targets, and she wasn’t acting like a bloody archer.” He hissed. Thom doesn’t quite know what to say, because Goddard is talking in riddles and metaphors that don’t really make sense. He glances at Bull who’s still stood there, close enough to make a move if anyone does anything stupid. But Sera was, is, an archer, a bloody good one to boot.

“Her tip from the Red Jennies? It got people killed, it got servants killed, it got noblemen killed, and it got soldiers killed.” He gestured with pointed fingers, “To what end Rainier? She claimed she was helping the little people, giving them something to hope for. A poor man died because of an uncontrolled tongue and baseless rumour, and I had to pick up the pieces. The Inquisition had to pick up the pieces.” He steps closer with a sneer on his face, "Her Red Jennies got those men and women killed for a meagre pay and a little selfish pride.”

“She’s out there on her own.” Thom snaps, his voice nasally from the shattered nose, it wasn’t anything new. "With that wolf out there, it’s not safe.”

Bull shuffles on his feet and inches closer, neither of the men take notice of it. Thom still has a dagger strapped to his belt beside his sword, and Bull knows in his head there’s a chance he’ll pull it. His heart says he won’t, but he won’t take the chance.

“Sera is gone and she will never come back, and if she does? She returns on pain of death.” Goddard pauses and recomposes himself. “I am fighting a war on several fronts I do not need to fight my own people. If you follow Sera out of those gates you will be branded a traitor to the Inquisition.” He said, much softer than before, and reaches a hand out to squeeze Thom’s shoulder. “Think of the consequences Thom.” He offers a sad smile before he leaves, the soldiers following him back up the steps and into the grand hall, and Thom is left there with blood dripping down into his beard and an all too familiar ache in his face.

Thom doesn’t really know why he had ever gained respect for a man like that; he sourly thinks it has something to do with being less Blackwall and more Thom. Blackwall would have known what to say, he could have made a bear dance the marigold with a few short words, and Thom can’t even string together a sentence that doesn’t sound partially bratty.

Sera was a good friend, he loved her in his own way, always made sure she did the little things she had to. But in one fell swoop she’d left and hadn’t even said goodbye. Thom felt guilt curdling inside of him, what if she had tried, but he’d locked the doors to where he slept and she couldn’t get in.

He knows that his nose will be swollen and awkward unless he wakes up the surgeon, and that he’ll have to apologise in the morning to the Inquisitor. Thom doesn’t think half arsed words will cut it, and he’s half hoping they don’t. Trevelyan’s voice swims in his mind, think of the consequences, Goddard had been the one to grant him freedom and in turn he had pledged his life. He’d be strung up right alongside Sera. Now he remembers why it had always been so easy to slip into Blackwall’s armour, Thom Rainier was a bloody coward. All that fuss and drama in Val Royeaux, he was ready to die back then, he couldn’t have run any further, and he didn’t have anything to live for.

Those men in Halamshiral made it certain that no matter what he did Thom Rainier and his crimes still swam beneath his skin. He didn’t choose to save one of his men, but turned himself over because he was too afraid and too tired to keep running. But he’s a free man now, fighting a war alongside men and women a thousand times better than himself.

Bull is still standing beside him when he releases himself from his thoughts. The Qunari offering a similar pat on the shoulder, but the severed fingers and larger palm gives him a whole other feeling.

"Lets get you cleaned up big guy.” He said, pulling Thom into the stables. Bull would rather have taken him to the tavern, to have Stitches give him something for the pain and to reset his nose. But he doubts that Thom would even step foot in it so soon after she had left, it feels like she’s died in a way.

No One was lucky when the caravan came round a second time, the man who wanted dust let him have a ride down. They’d spent the night in the seating area. The driver, Oswin, had told him about his wife and her pretty blonde hair, how she always kept it up in a bun and never let it sit across her shoulders. He had at least had the grace to take off his wedding band before No One knelt between his thighs.

Oswin’s journey shaved a day or two off of No One’s walk down the mountain. He had originally intended to use the first moon to travel three days in one night, but that had been restricted. The caravan had barely brought him up to his timekeeping plan, but he could still make it to the farm in time.

He asked a young boy where the farm was, and gave him a pocketful of coppers for his trouble. He would have given him more, but silvers would attract too much attention. The farmstead, belonging to the Carters, was a bright old thing. The crops were flourishing, the druffalo were happy enough in their wide pens, and they had baskets of Crystal Grace hanging by the doors.

No One waited there until dusk, then begin a steady pace for two hours until nightfall, stripping naked, pulling out his iron teeth, and burying his clothes before the moon overcame him. He felt the fade pulling at his skin, wispy hands curling around his joints and snapping them into place. It was a familiar agony that never seemed to dull regardless of how many times he did it.

He crept down the path and out between the trees, rubbing his head against the barn doors and teething on the locked iron chain. He could hear people inside, little mutterings and soothing words.

“It’s just the wind child.” Came an echo. There was an open shaft high up that he climbed through, and he heard the harsh breathing and muffled cries, the quick shushing off a child’s whimper. There had to have been a dozen or so, chained up inside a horse’s pen, their skin blackened with grime, and hair in tangles.

They started crying, No One’s bestial frame hulking towards them, claws curling around the bars and chains that bound them. He leant in close and forced his snapping jaws through the bars to make them scream. The captives were abandoned as he began looking around the barn, sniffing his way through the thousands of scents there. He heard the commotion from outside, and slipped into a corner beside the large barn doors. With any luck they’d head straight for the chained up elves. The Carters stepped in with swords out, furious that their stock had started making noise when they had been explicitly told not to. He tore the pair to shreds, leaping on them from behind, and bounded to the main house to finish his job.

It didn’t take long, perhaps less than a minute, and he turned the house over with a rampaging delight, the sight of gore rippled in his gut and his hunger won out over his dignity. He had feasted on human’s flesh before, both when he was a true beast and after he had been cured. No One always felt ashamed after, he always remembered it, the taste was absent but the memory of it all was as fresh as the Void.

He spent a few moments simply rumaging through the house, there was nothing of import. A letter or two about the people in the barn and their customers. He had left those out of display, and had found a ready made travellers satchel filled with dried meats and rich cheeses. No One eventually managed to drop a few bottles of wine in the bag as well, fancy stuff too. There was a pause within the house, armoured footsteps echoing across the gravelly plains the farm stood on, and torches lighting up the sky in smoke. The screams must have carried across the open wind.

The guards had a hard time trying to avoid the fleeing druffalo to get to the farmstead, greeted by nothing but massacre and cowering elves. No One had left them chained up, he had found it better to leave them bound than to set them free. Freed slaves were always blamed for crimes they did not commit, and No One’s absence of intervention assured him he could not be blamed for whatever may fall upon them.

No One dug up his clothing, tied neatly with rope and carried it in his jaws, aside the recently pilfered travellers satchel, as he fled east. He found refuge in an abandoned cave, and slept there until the morning woke him. He washed the dried blood from his naked body with the water from his nugskin and the cloth of the stolen satchel, he burned the bloodied thing after packing the contents up in his own sack. Then he struggled his way to sit outside a tavern in the morning sun where a dozen people passed him and he made sure to grab their attention. He would have a longer journey back home, and he would have to pass the farmstead he had just turned over, but it gave him an alibi and a reason to check on those elves. For what man could commit such a crime and be seen almost two days worth of travel away the next morning?  


	9. Family

Bull takes Thom back to his official bed chambers, he makes sure the man’s nose is set, that a fire is burning cleanly in the hearth, and that he actually wants to fall asleep before he leaves him. If he got drunk now? Who knows what he would want to do. He waits silently outside of Thom’s room for a few moments, listening to the rustle of his sheets as he turns over and over, he hears Thom murmuring slightly but brushes it off, before taking his leave. He had told Dorian he’d meet him tonight, and felt something foreign and out of place at not being there.

Thom finds himself in a dreamless sleep. Frustrated and exhausted from the day’s events. To know that he may never see Sera again? His heart collapsed in on itself, he had never felt more of a failure than he does at this very moment.

He wakes before sunrise, and goes out with the woodcutters to gather construction materials and firewood. His eyes are constantly on alert, watching out for a flash of blonde hair in between each swing of his axe. He doesn’t laugh with the others; most of them are trying to come up with new jests about chopping wood in the morning. Garron is the first to ask him what he thinks of his newest creation, but Raas tells him to leave it. There’s a limit to how far you can push an armed man.

There’s a scuffle in the low bushes that puts them all on edge, and a few nugs sprint from the undergrowth to the collective relief of the entire group. A lot of the trees had been damaged by the wolf that had taken to lurking around Skyhold, and the group had explicit instructions to avoid those areas but to mark them on their maps for the Spymaster.

“You think we should ask for collateral?” Clayton said. He was a short man with wide shoulders, and a fistful of scattered blonde hair across his scalp. “Out here just after sunrise with a hungry beast on the prowl?”

“Piss on that, the thing’s a fucking bear.” Garron laughed, in his thick Starkhaven accent. “Bloody _wolf_ , a mothering bear with a litter of cubs. She won’t attack a group of men with axes if she’s smart.”

“Bears aren’t smart, bears are hungry.” Raas chimed in. She was easily the strongest of the group, and spent time carrying strips of timber that took two or three others to carry. She also took the time to thwack Garron across the arm with the blunt edge of her axe for his comment.

“Thom, Leland, Wesley, what do you think? Bear or demon wolf?” Garron grinned. He poked two fingers up on each hand to tally the bear and wolf count. Wesley voted for bear, and Thom waved them off. He wasn’t in the mood for a light chat, he wanted to take out his aggression by working hard, and his nose was throbbing with each swing. The conversation died down with the unwilling participants, even their mid morning break falls flat within the group.

“I was in Denerim during the blight.” Leland mumbled. He was an old man, really only just a sliver older than Thom, but he would have a full head of grey hair if it wasn’t for the scar that ran across the back of his scalp and down his neck. “I was there when the Hero of Ferelden charged against the darkspawn, and I saw that bloody archdemon.” Leland’s got the attention of the entire group, even Raas takes the time to rewrap the blackened sweet bread she’s been eating to give him her full attention.

“I saw him charge, with men and beasts in his ranks. Wolves on two legs, listening as he ordered them to charge down alleys to clear out those ‘spawn.” He picks at his nails as he speaks, and scuffs the snow around his worn leather boots. “They were smart, they knew what he was saying, and I think they even knew how big of a threat this blight was.”

“That’s all bullshit.” Garron scoffed. He was grinning as if the whole thing was an elaborate lie. Several people had already dismissed the reality of the blight, the others had taken decades to stem and the most recent had taken a year? They all said it had simply been a darkspawn surge, and the archdemon, if it was there, could have been a normal high dragon.

Wherever you went people had differing opinions on the Hero; he was hailed in Ferelden, distrusted in Orlais up until they found out he spent half of his life there, the countries further North had scepticism coming out of their noses if they brought up the topic. To them it had just been a surge of dirty doglord refugees fleeing their cesspit of a country. If that wasn’t bad enough some men had taken to boasting that they had been the Hero of Ferelden themselves, which meant the man’s location was somewhat unknown.

Garron thought as if Leland was trying to scare the group into taking a strike against the Inquisition, the youngest of this particular group was himself at twenty-three. He prided himself on his strength, he had been one of the first men to dismiss the tales of the wolf, and to promise that if it did exist he’d hunt it down and wear the pelt as a trophy. But Garron was the son of a minor lord, displaced because he supported Prince Goran even after Prince Sebastian’s return.

“You’re a Marcher. You can’t tell us 'Reldans what the blight was, and what it wasn’t.” He snapped, “I saw him fighting with wolves that weren’t wolves, I saw how fast they were, and how they killed his enemies. You see that wolf, you cower and hope it doesn’t sniff out your greasy 'Stark hide.” He grabs his water skin and leaves to walk the lengthy journey back to Skyhold alone. Thom’s the one who stops him from charging after the old man, grabbing his shoulders and blocking his path.

The next day is almost the same, the exception being Garron and Leland at each other’s throats with every snide comment they say. More lumber is taken in the horse drawn carts, and Thom thinks about snagging a few good pieces for his woodwork in the barn but decides against it. With every day that passes Sera remains hours further away, and the chances of seeing her become fewer with each sunrise. He doesn’t truly feel like working on something so delicate with that on his mind.

Thom had eventually apologised to the Inquisitor, if he had worn a hat he would have wrung it dry between his clammy fingers when they spoke in the war room. Trevelyan had apologised in return, and had offered to have someone fix his nose but Thom waved him off. Bull had done a good enough job, and it had been broken half a dozen times before Goddard had taken to him.

He did ask about what the Inquisitor had meant, if Sera did return would he truly kill her? The old man had sighed then and rubbed the bridge of his crooked nose, then wiped across his tired eyes. No, he had said. Now in hindsight he didn’t want to have the young girl hanged, she did irritate him beyond belief but that was scarcely a good reason, but it was a possibility that she would be killed upon returning. He was a man of his word after all.

 Goddard thought he had threatened her with it wrongly and perhaps all these decisions and the constant pressure was turning him into a different man. Sera just happened to get the short end of the stick, and had prodded him relentlessly with it. But he thanked Thom, sincerely, for reminding him that he wasn’t just in control of soldiers but in control of men and women with families and friends. It was remarkably humbling, even if he had explained that his wife had also been a driving force in his change of opinion. As she always had been no doubt.

Sera would never be welcomed back, and he made that clear to Thom. He wasn’t one to go back on his word unless he had truly been wrong, and yes he agreed his execution could have been better but the decision was the right one. Sera and the Red Jennies were not their allies, they were not considered enemies yet, but the lack of intimacy with the Inquisition had made a few noble ears prickle with expectancy. Lady Josephine had been picking through letters to figure out more possible allies within the upper class, and some notes came with hefty parcels containing several donations to their cause.

Thom found himself working with the woodcutters for the next week or so, everything seemed to blur, and he hadn’t been in the tavern since that night. Sera’s room had been left empty for the time being. It wasn’t a large room by any means, but she had managed to pack in a lot of her things from what Thom had seen.

The morning journeys had become quite soothing, and he chopped wood with less vigour and aggression, though kept up his usual pace. His nose healed about as well as it could, Raas gave him a niche ointment for it; the stuff made his eyes water when he spread it across his nose but Maker did it work wonders. She seemed to be flustered when Thom thanked her for it the next day, and Garron had spent a good half hour making kissing noises at the pair.

“Ignore him. He is… Indescribably idiotic.” She laughed. Raas was relatively new to the Inquisition, after the news broke out that the Inquisitor had refused to ally with the Qunari, dozens of Vashoth came to its aid. Some had been soldiers, a lot had been mercenaries, there were a few cooks, and a multitude more. She had come from a lumber-mill, her grandparents were Tal-Vashoth, and she had grown up learning how to carry, cut, and carve wood.

Raas had, for a brief moment in her life, contemplated what the Qun meant to her. She abandoned her birth name and opted to call herself Athlok, though she was not welcomed by the Qunari and felt as if she had dishonoured her family. So she named herself Raas instead, a Qunari word and a mimicry of her original name.

“At least he isn’t focusing on Leland anymore.” Thom smiled, and picked at his food. Raas was pretty up close, most of the time he was face to breast on her, and he made sure to always look elsewhere. She had short dark hair and dark grey skin, her horns where asymmetrical curling things with little dents and chips knocked out. She had flat features and bright but tired brown eyes.

“Small blessings.” She said, and wrapped up her food with paper and string. “Fancy a drink at the Herald’s Rest later?” Thom doesn’t really know what to say, and as the seconds go by the answers becomes evidently more obvious. He apologises after she voices the rejection herself.

Thom had kept the last arrow that Sera had fired in the Inquisition. He ran his finger across the pointed tip when he sat in his bathing room waiting for the runes to boil the water. It had been fifteen days since she had left; he absentmindedly thought the same of No One. He chuckles at the thought of them travelling together; he’d have an arrow up his arse within minutes. At least he knew where No One had gone, some place a ways away from Redcliffe, and she had just vanished.

There wasn’t any anger as the days wore on. Not directed at himself, or Trevelyan, nor No One. Dorian seemed a bit irritated with him but the mage was so hard to read that Thom gave up trying. It wasn’t as if they moved in the same circle, perhaps on the same course but they would scarcely meet.

Goddard had, much to Thom’s surprise, spent a few minutes talking to him in the stables; he had actually gone out of his way to meet with the man. Like they used to do when he was simply Blackwall, and it felt remarkably good. There was still something there, a sense of awkwardness, the ever present archer hiding behind the rampart walls. But it would fade in time.

News had come from Redcliffe, rumours and official writings, about a gruesome attack on a farmstead. Leliana had picked up on it due to its striking similarity to the attacks near Skyhold. Thom had only heard from Clayton, and he had only heard from the chef Antoine, and the chef had heard from a maid named Dawn, and so forth. He didn’t know whether to believe it was the same animal, or if it were another of the same species. But he did worry about No One being out there, the man was defenceless, and useless at fighting or fleeing if his staggering gait and bowed legs were anything to go by. He dared not think too much on it.

It wasn’t the only rumour flying around Skyhold, news had come from all over Thedas on hundreds of different tongues. The Emperor of Orlais was courting, and several women seemed confident that they would gain a place by his side, Ferelden’s King and Queen were expecting their first child, and two men and three dogs had cleared out an entire darkspawn nest just outside of Gwaren. Thom tended to ignore rumours if he could, unless they were directly linked with himself, and he found a small sense of comfort in returning to the griffon he had yet to finish.

The gaggle of children had stood outside the barn doors as he painted it, and complained that paint took too long to dry when Thom set it out in the midday sun. A few days and he could carry it to the small room that served as an area for children to play in when their parents were elsewhere.

Redcliffe was all abuzz with the recent tragedy; the sisters with the stronger stomachs had been the ones to arrange the bodies on the pyres, stuffing their clothes with straw where their bodies had been too malformed. Most of the village turned out to offer their sympathies to the only family member to survive the attack. He hadn’t been there to see them suffer at the hands of some beast, but he knew if he had been there he wouldn’t have fared any better than they had. The man fiddled nervously with his wedding ring, pulling it off and on as the ceremony went on, and the bodies of his children were eaten by flame.

No One sat a distance away on the side of a grassy hill to watch the smoke and ash rise into the sky. He was glad that the funeral had come around so quickly, the less time he spent here the better.

 It was warmer down here, it was true that winter hit the south faster than it hit the north, but in Skyhold winter lasted a month or two longer in the clouded peaks. He shrugged off a layer of his blankets and rolled it up and stuffed it into his satchel. No One would have to throw it back on when he began his climb up the mountain.

He watched as most of the group offered their sympathies to a balding man, and he felt his stomach sink. He scrabbled through his clothing, pulling out letter after letter until he found green ink with a list of names. He had killed two parents and four children, hadn’t he? No One quickly swallowed his way through half a bottle of cheap wine, dropped a quarter on himself, and staggered in to the funeral.

“Driver!” He shouted, and pushed his way through the crowd. “I need a carriage, to go to, to, to, the mountain.” He babbled.

“Get this drunkard out of here!” One woman shouted, she began smacking at his shoulders with her wooden cane, and it wasn’t long before guards had their fists grabbing at his arms and were hauling him out of there. But it didn’t matter, he had seen him; _Oswin_ , the bastard. Dust-loving carriage driver, the man would have been helping men and women up the mountain, and helping himself to stragglers to sell on to Tevinter.

No One would have to wait until he returned to Skyhold before he could send the piss merchant a letter; he couldn’t wait around for another few weeks until the next moon came around without arousing suspicion. Not to mention the rumours the next day had him spending the next few nights in a cell.

The young boy from before pointed him towards a group of elves who had recently come into town, for a few more coppers from No One’s palm. They were easy to find, the guards didn’t seem to have done anything for them. They had bathed, but Redcliffe sat beside Lake Calenhad, and it was more viable for them to have spent their time there than anywhere else. No One pulled the stolen wine from his bag, wrapped it in the blanket he no longer wore, and approached the group of elves.

“Would you accept this?” He knelt down and handed the satchel to the eldest of the group. “It has some dried food in, and some coins.”

“Thank you Serah. But we cannot take this from you, you seem like you need this also.” He spoke clearly, even if his voice was dry and weak. “Sit with us, and share.”

“I have this-” No One patted the blanket he carried, the bottles clinking under the dirty rags. “-and you don’t need more people to take care of.”

“Then I accept this gift stranger, may the Maker keep you safe from harm.” He gently squeezes No One’s hand before picking some of the food from the back and separating it out to feed the others.

Perhaps one day, No One thought idly, he would sit beside the elves and find peace with them. But old memories still churned in his mind, it seemed that guilt always won out over a chance for redemption, and there was little he could do to fix that. Nonetheless he began his journey back to Skyhold. A small shiver ran through him at the thought of seeing Rainier again, he felt silly but the man had grown on him.

That night he dreamt of faces from his youth, he still ran from the armoured figures, but he was surrounded damaged buildings instead of drooping wet trees. Disembodied hands pointed from open window slats, they shouted in garbled voices, mossy soil fills one ear, but the noise that should echo in the other falls silent. The elf from his graduating days lies down across from him with blank, empty, eyes and absent from expression. No One reaches out to grab for the boy, but he is paralysed.

He wakes at the standing at the mouth of the cave he fell asleep in, his eyes are dry and the sunlight is reaching for his toes.


	10. Young and Pretty

No One managed to grab a seat on the back of a supply cart up to Skyhold. It carried the basic things like flour, salt, and sugar in large sacks, behind it followed two more filled with the hefty bags. He shared the several day long journey with two dwarves, one sold him a pack of cards for a bottle of wine, who debated whether or not the crumbled ruins of the Temple of Sacred Ashes meant Andraste had been taken by the Stone or not, he stayed out of it.

He had been devout once, lighting candles in the chantry with his father, Maxime for his lost uncle, whom he had never met in his life. Years after receiving an honourable discharge from the chevaliers due to sustaining heavy injury at a tourney, he had simply vanished. Maxime still held onto hope that his brother would return one day. That taught him the importance of family over anything else. If there was anything he kept true to, it was that law that he upheld himself.

No One spent the last night of the journey sleeping in a cave on his own; he bathes in the snow, and then walks the next six hours alone to the mountain fortress. He still suffered from the same nightmare, but he felt like he had nettles in his stomach with each step he took. It had been years since he had felt his nerves being rattled, even so softly as they were.

He finds Rainier sitting inside the stables, a dark haired child is perched on the stool beside him watching intently what he does. No One hasn’t seen her before, and he feels intrusive on the private moment. Flashes of old memories come back to him; braiding impossibly long hair and making sure to thread in Andraste’s Grace because she loved those, running with her clinging to his back, never quite being able to say goodbye each time he left. He hadn’t been given the chance the last time; he supposed dead men didn’t really get that opportunity.

The girl spies him and stares long enough for Rainier to take notice. His smile is heart warming, infectious enough that No One has to pull his lips back together to hide the iron he keeps there. Rainier pats the girl on the back and shoos her off to go find her mother.

“You’re back.” Rainier said. He stands with a crack to his knees and welcomes the man back with a slap on the shoulder. It doesn’t slip passed No One’s notice that it curled around far too back to have been aimed that way.

“You have a child?” He doesn’t mean for that to be his first question, but his tongue works on its own for now. Rainier laughs and scratches at his jaw, his fingertips are stained red-purple and traces of it remain clinging to his beard.

“Not that I know of.” He pauses and motions for him to follow him inside the stable. “She asked me to fix up the paint on her doll, and I have some left over. I figured it wouldn’t do anyone any harm.” He shrugs as he picks it up; it’s worn from years of use, the paint nothing but little flecks of colour. Except her newly painted gloves, which match the sewn dress neatly folded off to one side.

“Do you?” Rainier prods him with his elbow as he sets the doll down.

“No.” He said. It was terse, too quick, as if it came from a man whose dying breath was used to defy his captors. Once it had been practiced, day and night, his mother asking him over and over if he had a child. No, no, no, sometimes she’d slip it into their private conversations over tea, no of course not, but he hadn’t been asked the question in years.

Did it matter if _No One_ had a child? No One’s child who lived nowhere, who had nothing and nobody, and the last time he saw her was never. But she wasn’t No One’s child, she belonged to the man he was before. Someone, from somewhere, who had something and somebody, and the last time he saw her was from a top an alienage mule as he fled the city. He hoped she hadn’t seen him, dirt across his gilded greaves, blue fabric now damp with red.

Thom doesn’t speak until the fog in No One’s eyes is lifted and the man seems to realise just where he is. He had seen the expression before, when he had ventured into the nearby village when he was younger. His father had stumbled over his words trying to explain why he one less child now, and Thom had heard him weeping late into the morning hours.

“How was Redcliffe?” Thom picks an easy distraction.

“There was a funeral.”

“Nasty business, we’ve had rumours flying around here about more animal attacks.” Thom spares a glance at No One, who shrugs off the concern.

“Worried about me?” He snorts, “I reckon I’m tougher than you.”

“Oh?” Rainier laughs; it’s a forgotten sweetness to No One’s ears. “Is there any weight behind those words?” No One angles the palm of his wrist high and manages to shove Rainier’s head back before he grapples at his waist. Thom stomps on No One’s naked foot, who in turn manages to dig his elbows into the creases of Rainier’s ribs.

It’s an awkward scuffle; Rainier latched onto No One’s middle and trying to shove the man over. It leads them outside the barn spinning and grunting. No One using his longer legs to keep them steady and to ram his knees up into Thom’s gut. Weight wins out over balance as they end up toppling in to the thinner layer of snow that has accumulated across the grassy pathway. No One’s still jabbing at Rainier’s face and shoulders, his legs pinned, with Thom struggling to slap away the offending limbs.

Thom ends up with a finger in his eye, but has fish-hooked his thumb into the side of No One’s mouth. The blonde lightly chews his way across Rainier’s digit, tasting sweat and wood, before his knee is freed and yanks upward to catch Thom in the groin. The brawl ends abruptly as Rainier rolls off and cups his wounded bollocks in both hands and grunts face down into the snow.

“If the wolf has balls-” he whimpers and rolls onto his back to spread out his legs, “I’m sure you’ll be fine.” No One squeezes Thom’s bicep under his thick coat as a gentle reassurance. But the sight of the man red faced, grinning painfully, hair wet with snow, and both hands resting between the juncture of his legs leaves him wanting. No One can’t help but tug at his own ratty breeches underneath his own rags.

Thom’s laughing, even through the pain, and tips his head to the side to look at No One. The arousal on his face is clear enough, and it takes him back a moment, he coughs awkwardly to clear the air and No One sits up with his arms splayed back to rest his weight on. A few people had gathered to watch the two men, but the soldiers on duty hadn’t thought it worth interfering. It was little more than a drunken scrap by all accounts, even if both men were sober.

“Drink?” No One said. Thom spares a glance at the tavern, he had turned Raas down before. He knew it was silly, but he wasn’t quite ready to face the empty room above the tavern hall. If it still remained empty, he had seen a carpenter working inside the room as he passed it one day.

“Grab something from the tavern and bring it back here, I’ve still got some work to do.”

“Yes, Ser.” No One pushes himself up using Rainier’s bent knee and staggers off. Thom meant to ask him about Sera, if he had seen her go, or if he had seen her on his travels. He’d ask him when he returns with whatever drinks take his fancy.

He doesn’t, and No One returns with half a crate full of cheap albeit potent whiskey, the bottles rattling with every step. He drops the last of the stolen wine bottles in as he walks; having it awkwardly tied to his thigh was giving him rope burn through his rags. No doubt Rainier had felt it jabbing against him earlier.

The whiskey soothes No One’s throat, and he feels comfort wash over him as he watches Rainier chisel his way through a second rocking horse for the children. He does wonder why he doesn’t simply buy one, it’d save time and he clearly has the funds even with the amount that No One spends in the tavern. Which Thom hasn’t yet complained about, even if his face did turn an angered pink when he returned with more than he had expected.

Thom asks him about his business near Redcliffe, and No One dances around the subject. He tells him he was sourcing information for a friend, but got tangled up in his lies. Then explained he had just heard there was a small cart transferring rum from the Blessed age but that hadn’t been true, and he had returned with nothing. Rainier bought it though, or at least looked like he had.

No One fetches a plate of food for the both to eat from as the day wears on; he stands at the tavern’s counter with a mug of ale as he waits for the food to be cooked. Dorian’s sitting off to one side with a dwarf and glass of wine, and for once No One doesn’t want to intrude. It doesn’t stop him chewing his lip and cocking his hips out further when he glances over though. The dwarf seems to find it amusing even if Dorian scowls into his drink.

“Lot of food there big guy.” The Qunari said, peering over his shoulder and reaching to grab three ales. “You taking that down to Thom?”

“Lot of drink there big guy.” No One mimics.

“Oh yeah, I’m over there-” He jabs his thumb backwards to Dorian and the dwarf, “You should bring Thom up here.” No One grabs his food, kept warm under a clean rag from Cabot, and makes his leave. He doesn’t trust him; he’s got the look of a man who knows too much.

The sun is dangerously low and falling under the mountaintops, so No One has to half jog to the stables lest the moons burn him.

Thom’s already packed half of his tools away, sweeping wood shavings onto a slab before tossing them into the fire. He clears off an area when he sees No One coming, and he steels himself to ask what he has been meaning to for the last few hours.

It’s an awkward conversation; No One has a slice of bread shoved in his mouth for half of it making it hard for Thom to understand him. He explains that he doesn’t usually get involved with other people’s affairs, and if he and Sera had an argument it wasn’t his business. Rainier has to explain to him that he and Sera weren’t courting as No One thought they had been, which made everything a whole lot lighter.

Thom couldn’t really wrap his head around the idea in any serious manner, but No One had explained that matches like that were pretty common, and how he remembered when the Grand Duke had gotten married to someone less than half his age. It wasn’t as if young and pretty women courting older and richer men was unusual, and Sera _was_ young and pretty in No One’s eyes.

Thom had to scrub the image from his mind before it came to light. She had, time after time, perversely explained her love for peaches over bananas. Sitting through her explaining how to eat a peach had been hilarious, and he was thankful that he’d had a whetstone in hand to distract him.

It didn’t slip over his head that No One mentioned the Emperor. Thom wasn’t in Orlais for that, he was younger then, still fighting with his fists more than he did with a sword. He was in Markham, and hadn’t heard about the whole debacle until he worked in Orlais years later. The only issue with this was he didn’t know where to place No One at that time, was he living in the alienage or on the street? He still hadn’t decided whether or not the man could be partially Elven, he wasn’t going to ask, or at least he wouldn’t yet.

They split as the night goes on; No One grabs the crate of whiskey and bows his goodbye to Rainier. His blankets are up over his head as he climbs the slopes up to the ramparts and makes his way to his tarp home. Thom waves at him from the stable doors and No One salutes him with the whiskey before turning in for the night. His chest is warm, and there’s a grin on his face but he blames that on the drink. He uses a pilfered box of matches to light the fire pit outside his tent, and he’s glad he threw the stolen logs inside his home before he left for Redcliffe. The letter from the Piss Merchant finds its death inside the flames, the written evidence of the Carters’ contract curling up into blackened ashes.

Thom makes his own way to his bed chambers; it’s getting too cold to sleep in the stables even with a belly full of whiskey. He wonders for a moment whether No One would be alright in the harsh climate, but the steady plume of smoke calms his nerves.

His own room is brightly lit with its own fire, he guessed the cleaning maids had noticed it was being slept in and thought to keep the room warm. Thom strips off everything save his under things, too hot in his thick padded coat, and wriggles under the clean sheets. Thom grunts as he relaxes, he can smell the sweet scent of soap from the bed linen. On top of that he can smell smoke in his beard, whiskey on his breath, he’s drunk enough that he rolls onto his front and spreads his arms out wide to reach either side of the bed.

Raas enters his mind for a moment. She’s tall with strong arms, stronger legs, he can imagine her riding him, pinning him under slender palms. Long blonde hair trailing over her shoulders, he can imagine it hanging between them, how it would flow with the curve of her neck.

He takes himself in hand after turning onto his back; reaching one hand upward Thom anchors it to the headboard with an iron grip. He’s wet before he knows it, and he releases the bed and turns onto his front once more. His hips raised high enough that he can tug himself off with one hand, the other threaded through his own hair with the grip tightening.

Thom sobers after his orgasm, thankful that he was able to finish with all that alcohol in his system. Washing away the evidence on shaking legs he throws himself back into bed, it smells like sex and smoke and whiskey. It lulls him to sleep, his mind filtering through random thoughts lazily before he remembers that Raas has her dark hair cropped short.

He waves it off when his heart stops trying to break through his chest. Lots of people have long blonde hair in Skyhold, and he’s drunk, _very_ drunk.

Morning wakes him and he realises he never shut the drapery over the large windows last night. He thinks about going out with the woodcutters again, it’s always nice to have a spare pair of working hands. But he doesn’t think he could face Raas after what he did last night, it’s half a blur and he’s struggling to convince himself that he had actually imagined her on top of him. At first he had, and that’s what mattered really.

The fire had taken a while to bring to life; some of the wood had been dampened by snow, and the matches weren’t quite taking. No One holds the small stick, wetting his fingers to grab the burnt edges and letting the flame travel all the way to the other end.

He  looks thinner the next morning in the stables, and it takes Thom a while to realise it’s because he’s not wearing the same clothes as yesterday. Though calling them _clothes_ seems like the kindest words for what he wears. They look cleaner, the stitching is just as bad but the thing isn’t as stained or dirty as the others had been. A strange time for him to be abandoning his bountiful layers, especially with the cold setting in.

“I got you these yesterday.” No One said, and tosses the small paper wrapped parcel to Rainier as he enters the stables. They hit him in the chest and he grunts as if they actually hurt him. “Your others are... Stained.” He laughs. It’s a nice laugh Thom thinks, a bit scratchy in his throat, and more breath than voice, but it’s pleasant to hear.

Thom unwraps the parcel and holds the deck in his hands. The set is brand new, almost, and they’re dwarven printed. It’s a remarkably thoughtful gift, even if it means his old set would have to be put aside for the time being.

“I’ll settle for a kiss if you can’t think of how to thank me.” No One leans back on Thom’s stool and spreads his legs. “I’ll even let you choose-”

“Don’t say it.” He chides, and waves the cards at him. He taps them to his head and pockets them inside his coat. No One takes it as the only thanks he’ll get, and he’s mildly thrown that he doesn’t even mind. He had even traded good wine for those, even if it had been free.

Rainier has something to catch up on with the Spymaster, so he lets No One go on his way, he’s not entirely sure if No One has any friends outside of himself. There was that scout, he remembers, but he doesn’t quite know if that counts as a friend or not.

Thom wants to know where Sera is, even under the promise that he won’t go after her. He’d settle for just knowing she’s safe. Leliana will have kept tabs on her; she always has a knack for finding out where people are even if they don’t want to be found. After all, as soon as Thom had left the slightest trace she’d had him figured out, and had dug up all his past including times when he had been arrested in his youth. Every small criminal act that Thom Rainier had been complicit in, from when he was born to the present day. The only thing that had stopped her from digging had been Blackwall’s title. That was hardly any protection now.

“Sera is safe, Thom, The Inquisitor has told me to keep quiet about her location and I shan’t go against his word.” She said, something oddly soft in her smile. “But I can tell you this, Bann Trevelyan has invited the Hero of Ferelden to stay here at Skyhold for a time.” She paused and shuffled some papers, she does it to let him think on her words. A real Grey Warden here didn’t bode well for the pretender. “I look forward to meeting him again.”

“Again? My Lady.” Thom asks. Surely she had not... He doesn’t really want to question it; she seems to know everyone in one way or another.

“We met briefly in Lothering, he was insufferable and didn’t believe what I had to say.” She deftly pulled together her papers and slipped them under her arm. “The prisoner you requested me to find-”

“You don’t need to find him.”

“Of course. Perhaps you could ask him if he intends to use his room or not, we have several Sisters who are tired of sharing cramped rooms.”

 _Bollocks_.


	11. Missing Years

No One had, for the best part of his time in Skyhold, decided that annoying the sparring soldiers was amongst his favourite things to do. But today he simply watched. The Iron Bull was out with his men, running through drills, taking up half the courtyard with swooning fans. No One sat off to the side, whiskey in hand, and his toes curling in the grass. He sat beside the stairs to the great hall; nobody tossed him money this time.

He did not like that Qunari. He was friendly, there was no doubt, but men weren’t just _friendly_ to a man like him. They spit in his drinks, stepped on his toes, knocked him into other people just to cause fights. On the odd occasion there might have been one or two who helped him up to his feet, gave him a few coppers and sent him on his way. But that was rare, and he did not trust those men.

That had been something the elves in the alienages had taught him. A few coppers from a brimming pocket, they weren’t helping the poorer people in the cities, they were buying a sense of pride. Bragging rights to tell their friends they had given to charity, as if a few measly coppers could do anything except buy a loaf of burnt bread. But, he thinks solemnly, those coppers added up to a silver eventually.

Bull had noticed the man skulking in the corner; Krem had almost pointed it out to him before Bull waved him off. Red had told him to keep a watchful eye on him, whatever his game the man hadn’t yet made a move. If he even had a move to make. Assassins were hardly harmless, and those who blended in well were to be feared the most. But for the most part, several scouts had noticed him, several had put in complaints. To which the Inquisition was unable to act. To all degrees the only thing No One had done was to goad some soldiers into beating him up, not once throwing up his own defence.

Figuring out that he had been the one with Thom in his cell hadn’t been easy, and it was mostly built on guesswork. He had arrived after Thom had, and stuck to the man like flies on shit. Leliana learned from Bull that the two were friends, and were possibly venturing onto something more, which hadn’t aided him in pulling information at all. She had gained some knowledge from the Inquisitor’s wife, who had met the man back in Val Royeaux. She mentioned that it hadn’t been the most pleasant of meetings she’d had to date, he was foul and vulgar, and she had to stop the pity that bloomed in her gut.

Bull explained that getting information from Thom would be awkward at best; even tiptoeing around them would be difficult. No One’s walls were high and guarded well. Which only served to make him all the more dangerous. Thom less so, and he had told Leliana most of what she needed to know in less than half a second of emotion.

But the Inquisition couldn’t follow _maybe_ trails, finding Corypheus after the battle at Adamant, and stopping the Red Templars was top priority.

No One grew tired of watching them spar; it wasn’t as if he was learning anything. He did like watching that one soldier spar though, the one with the short cropped hair who he had wanted to irritate into fighting before; gorgeous. He’d fancy his chances if there wasn’t a massive grey wall in the way.

A familiar rich Tevinter smell passed above him, and No One stood with a quickness that dizzied his head.

“Dorian.” He curtseyed. “Drink?”

“Are we communicating with only a word at a time?” He stopped two steps higher than the blonde. “Here’s one for you; _No_.”

“We could be communicating with a lot less.” He took a step closer and chewed his bottom lip.

“Listen, I don’t know what you’ve heard from- from... Just stay away; I haven’t any time for you.”

“There a problem here?” Bull said. No One whipped around with a speed that belied his sobriety. The Qunari was too quiet, and No One didn’t trust a man who didn’t make any noise when he moved.

“No.” Dorian sniffed and turned back up the stairs to leave the pair alone. He was growing tired of this, first Bull hadn’t shown up when he had initially intended to sort out the problem, and now he’s showing up and creating more of a problem.

No One huffed and turned to face the Qunari, somehow that massive grey wall of a man was in the way here too. It wasn’t as if he was the most handsome man in the room, or the cleanest, nor would he ever be. But he hadn’t ever found any harm in trying. Of course Dorian was Tevinter nobility, which usually meant off limits to himself, but up there nobody knew about him, and the ‘Vints weren’t exactly in the business for tracking him down anyhow.

Bull doesn’t do anything but stare after Dorian until he’s gone, then returns to his sparring. No One doesn’t know what to think of it, and decides to let the whole ordeal fall out of his head. There’s a dozen other things he’d rather be doing.

Skyhold never seems to stop; nobles walk the halls as if they own them, each one eager to catch a glance of the Herald of Andraste, to shake his blessed palm. The servants and scouts scurry from room to room with letters and buckets, the ringing of sword on sword echoes across the courtyard daily.

No One finds that the garden is the quietest place to be. It’s rare that there’s ever a scuffle there, the most entertaining thing had been a few botanists arguing over how much elfroot they should plant because they needed space for other herbs too. He hadn’t spent much time in there ever since he had abandoned his Chantry Brother ruse. The robes had been comfortable though.

Forgoing a midday meal he returns to his home hidden behind the ramparts. He still has a few bottles of whiskey left from before he went to Redcliffe, but leaves them be in favour of his books. No One had managed to sneak away a few more; _Tale of the Champion_ by _Varric Tethras, Wolves, Hounds, Dogs, and More_ by _Aiken Tollen,_ and _Ravish Me; A Tale of Beasts_ by _Emmet Saile._ He hadn’t yet started reading _The History of Grey Wardens in Ferelden_ , telling himself that he was afraid to find nothing, over actually finding something.

 _Wolves, Hounds, Dogs, and More_ seemed prosperous at first. It detailed how wolves seemed to think, how they hunted, nothing about a human-wolf hybrid though. He’s half a bottle of whiskey down by the time the book is finished, unable to read a book sober, and the sun still sits high above the mountain tops. He rips out a few pages he thought could help him figure out why he did what he did as a wolf, and threw the remainder of the book into the pile for wiping. He awkwardly sews the loose pages together, never really that good with a needle, and drops them into the newly acquired crate that resides in his tent.

The crate has a few letters already, he had thought about dropping all of the paper that had been stuffed inside his clothes in there. But some are too precious. The ones that are cracked and worn, the ink faded, a few tears here and there. He has one he has written himself, it’s been held inside his rags for years. He rereads it often enough, making changes, adding small paragraphs and crossing others out. It’s been altered so many times it doesn’t read straight anymore. So he just keeps trying to fix it, he doesn’t have any other choice.

Rainier’s there to interrupt him with a smile under his beard. He had made an attempt at knocking before entering, but No One heard the awkward shuffling outside first and hadn’t bothered to investigate the source of the noise. It had started snowing again; winter making its presence known more and more every day, and Thom does his best to stamp the snow from his boots before taking up his seat inside the small room.

“Some light reading?” He pulls Varric’s book from the pile, it’s an unsigned copy which is unusual considering the author was less than ten minutes away. No One shrugs and tosses the book he’s holding behind him. It’s a small paperback fairytale; _Mean Monsters Mean Mayhem_ by _L. Simion_ , and it hadn’t yielded anything. No One stretches himself out and grunts his way through the motion. His bare feet end up just an inch to the right of Rainier, the skin is pale and purpling in the cold, covered in thick calluses and grime that’s slowly been washed away by walking in the snow. Thom can’t help but notice how sickly they look.

“Do you need some boots?” He asks, he feels as if he has to. Thom can’t imagine how Solas had survived in Haven with the thin wraps he had worn across his feet. Magic perhaps? But Dorian constantly complained about the cold, maybe it was an elf thing? But Sera wore boots all the time; she even had thick furred slippers.

“Not particularly.” He lowers his stretched arms and folds them across his belly.

“It wouldn’t be a problem for me to get you some.” Rainier grabs for No One’s ankle, placing it on his lap and kicking off one of his boots. He places them sole to sole and hums his thoughts aloud. For all the numbness in his toes No One’s heel and ankle seems to burn under Rainier’s gentle grip, he can feel the hard skin across his thumb making an ever so slight stroking motion against the bony ridge in his lap. “We’re about the same size, your toes might be squashed in mine but that’ll do for the time being.”

“It’s fine, Rainier.” He picks at the hem of his rags; some of the haphazard stitching had started to fall loose. “I’ve managed without them so far.” No One offers him a smile with closed lips, the jest about size mattering doesn’t fall from his mouth, and he wonders why he hasn’t said it.

“That doesn’t mean you have to any longer.”

“It does.” No One rubs his face and pulls his ankle out of Rainier’s grip. He’s not drunk enough to excuse this; he’s not even drunk enough to fool himself into imagining that he is. Thom doesn’t say anything, he waits as still as the mountains, until the silence starts to curl in No One’s throat and begins to suffocate him.

“I told you I killed someone.” No One chews the skin around his thumbnail, it tasted like dirt and old books, “His son made me realise a lot of things.” He looks at Rainier who nods to signify he’s acknowledged him, damn him No One wants him to speak. “I don’t take things unless they should be taken, and I shouldn’t give things unless they should be given.”

“I don’t understand.” Thom’s voice is calm, soothing, unusually soft for a voice as thick and strong as his own.

“Neither do I.” No One laughs. It’s pitiful, made more of forceful huffs than any realistic enjoyment. He’s being so painfully honest it’s churns his guts and he feels needles at the backs of his eyes.

There’s so much he can’t remember from his missing years. There are flashes and twisted memories which make up his recurrent nightmares, and the moon, that has to mean something. He remembers elves, a prison made from curling vines, the agony and sickness inside of him. Those stones had been the only thing clear in his missing years, and he knew those, whatever they were, meant he was safe. No One came back from those years changed, a thousand memories instilled in his mind yet hidden under layers of blank space. Fear stopped him from accessing them, fear or weakness it was hard to decide. But this newfound sense of right and wrong, of how to live and what rules to abide by. It all came from those clouded memories.

“The thought is,” No One clears his throat, “it’s kind, thank you.” Rainier takes off his other boot, and then pulls his socks off and wedges them inside. It’s a strange thing to do; he can feel the chill biting at his toes the instant the woolly lining is gone. But No One cracks a better smile; the sight of his iron teeth makes Thom feel more relieved than discomforted. The subject is dropped, even if No One does eventually drop a pillow over Thom’s feet, the man might not say it but his toes had been curling and fidgeting for warmth for a while.

It’s more comfortable than No One is willing to admit, Rainier had been thumbing his way through the Tale of the Champion, almost a quarter of the way through the hefty book. He reads it aloud, laughing with No One at some of the more dramatic passages.

 

“ _Shemlen” The Dalish guards had scowled at the group. Hawke was dumbfounded, offended, he didn’t even know what a Shemlen was but he knew it to be an insult from their grievous tone._

_“Stay your tongue; I have business with your leader.” He cursed, his face pinching and twisting into a red mist of rage. The elves backed down in favour of fighting the soon to be Champion, realising their would-be costly mistake._

“He’d fight an entire clan over an insult?” No One scoffed, his thumbnails clinking on the whiskey bottle.

“Hard to believe if it’s true or not, Varric likes to exaggerate when it comes to writing.” Thom dog-ears the page and sets it down. “I suppose it’s less damning when you find out what happens later.” He shrugs. It’s becoming too dark to read any longer without straining his eyes, Maker it made him feel old.

“What happens later?”

“Hooked already?” Rainier laughs, his mouth splitting into a wide smile, and the corners of his eyes wrinkling in delight. No One kicks him with his heel, and Thom grabs the offending limb with both hands.

“A voice like yours reading it to me? How could I not be?” No One sucks his bottom lip into his mouth with grin, his face screws up with a stifled chuckle. Thom releases the tighter grip of No One’s ankle, and rests it in his lap, his fingers gentle around the skin. From here he can see the mismatched belts that keep his breeches tight against his calf, the frayed edges and the way the material sags tells him they’re far too large. Or the man wearing them is far too skinny.

Thom can feel a chill settling in his bones as the minutes wear on, the warmth of the foot in his lap brings warmth to his chest and he is loathe to pushing it aside.

“You’re not really a man of the winter are you?” No One asks. His face is still shining with the faintness of a smile. He sits up regrettably and throws a blanket over his head before crawling from his home. The gust of wind that blows through has Rainier scrabbling for his boots and socks, pulling them on before stepping outside.

They had both been in there for hours, the sun had vanished and two slivers of moon sat high in the purpling night sky. They had missed last meal. Thom could feel his gut tensing at the emptiness within, but he thought No One looked no different than he usually did. Though the man was probably full of whiskey, and that could trick a man into feeling like he had recently eaten. No One lights the fire efficiently as he can, blowing at the smaller flames until they peaked a few inches higher, protected by the high stone walls that surrounded them.

“I was born in Harvestmere, all the winter had to offer me as a lad was knowing my nameday had been and gone for another year.” Thom shrugged, he hadn’t really celebrated it as much as they years went by. He warmed his hands by blowing on them and felt foolish for not grabbing his gloves on the way up here. Though to his credit he hadn’t planned on staying here for hours like he had done. No One had felt a stab of guilt in his chest, Harvestmere had been last month, and he had been away from Skyhold for the entire duration, even Satinalia had passed him by unnoticed.

“I was born in,” He paused and prodded the fire with a thin strip of wood. Was it worth it to tell Rainier? He wondered. He had nothing to gain, and he had nothing to lose. The last nameday he had celebrated had been his twenty-third, and that had been seventeen years ago. His missing years had taken up a decade of those, and No One didn’t have a name so he couldn’t have a name _day_.

“I was born in Wintermarch.” He nods, “dreadfully cold winter apparently. We stayed by the fires and wrapped up in dozens of blankets.” He doesn’t remember it of course, only a babe at his mother’s breast, but he had been sickly as a child and they had blamed a winter birth for that. His daughter had too been born in a violent winter, though the carnage had little to do with the stormy weather outside.

“Nothing much has changed then.” Rainier jabs him with the toe of his boot and snorts his laughter. He’s thrilled with the information, it’s only one stone taken from the walls No One is hiding behind, but it’s a stone nonetheless. Thom had half expected him to say ‘never’.

No One scoffs at him and wraps himself tighter in his rags. He’s standing close enough to the wall that the moonlight doesn’t hit him, but he is ever wary of its reach. Especially in company, particularly this company.

The high walls of the ramparts and the fortress that surround his tiny home give him ample protection from the wind. Rain, sleet, and snow would always be an issue, though he did momentarily think of setting up some wooden beams to create a sturdier roof. But the implications of what that meant were not lost on him. The tarp was intended to give him a place to stay, further away from prying eyes and ears. But it had given him more than that, and with every passing day it became less of a tent and more of a home.

Down below them they watch Skyhold turn from a bustling fortress into a peaceful refuge. Soldiers still line the ramparts, and some people yet remain awake, but it’s quiet in the hours of the eve. They can hear the Tavern from its way away, more and more people spent their nights there as it grew colder. Thom wondered who would move into Sera’s old room, and whether it would ever stop being just that. He glances at No One, who’s wrapped so tightly that Thom can only see the paleness of his face and lightened hair under the brown rags. Boots, he thought solemnly, the man needs an entire outfit or three.

The fire keeps them warm for an hour more, but the chill overpowers the flames and they both agree it seems silly for the men to drag out their night together. Rainier bids him goodnight, and No One makes sure he safely crosses the broken part of the ramparts before he returns to his tent. He spends a few hours sorting things out, several letters are burnt in the fire outside, and he manages to use a thick book cover to hold all his awkwardly stitched pages in. It’s not perfect but it will do for now.

No One puts the chamber pot in one corner, aside it sit the pages he no longer needs to read. The corner to the right sits the crate full of unread books and drinks, the remaining two thirds of space is filled with a pile of pillows, laid atop of several blankets to keep the chilled stones off of his bare skin. A few logs are holding down the doors of his home, and there’s a pile of them to one side of his bed of pillows to keep them dry from the weather. It’s remarkably cleaner by the time he has finished, and it’s a foreign feeling that settles in his gut as he lies across his bed.

It dawns on him that all those months ago he made a place to sleep out of convenience, but tonight it had taken its first steps to becoming a home.


	12. My Name, Your Name

Thom had left No One last night feeling both heavy and light in the strangest of ways. Oddly guilty that the man had nothing, and yet he himself had or could buy whatever he wanted. But he felt gleeful after spending half the day with him. There was something in No One’s presence that just made him feel so utterly comfortable.

It was unusual to think he had only met him a little over nine months ago, and it hadn’t been a very positive introduction at all. He wasn’t the best of men back in Val Royeaux. Yet No One had found him and started one of the strangest friendships he had ever had. Thom could count the things he knew about him on both hands, and he lies in bed listing them off on his fingers. He spent time in Orlais in his youth, he was born in Wintermarch, he likes to drink, he can’t fight, he colours his hair, bites his nails, leaves his food, flirts with strangers- Thom stops himself. He knows a lot more about No One than he initially thought.

He scoffs and rolls over under the sheets. Thom can think of a dozen or so things about all the people he knew. His mind doesn’t reassure him when it falls blank on two things about Solas, and six unbiased things about Madame Vivienne. He turns onto his side and lists off things about Master Dennet, or about Leland or Raas. It’s a stab to the gut when he thinks about how little people know of who he truly was, underneath everything that Blackwall had sculpted from him.

Thom finds No One in the stables the next morning, he’s lying on his desk with his legs bent at the knees and dangling off the edge. With his lips pursed he whistles a tune that changes with every few seconds, his feet thwacking against the nearby crates to add a soldier’s drumbeat to it. Thom greets him was a good morning and a slap to his thigh to make him shift.

“Have you eaten? I thought we could get some food.” No One said. He sits up with the eagerness of a child and knocks his knee against Rainier’s arm. “And ale.” He grins.

“All that whiskey put you off?” Thom snorts. He’s sitting on his usual stool, legs open and arms crossed with a grin beneath his beard. No One drank too much; a tipple here and there wasn’t so bad. But Thom had known people who liked to drown themselves in liquid spirits, he’d been to too many of their pyres.

“I have to line my gut every now and then.” He slaps Rainier’s shoulder and slips from his seat. No One begins the walk to the tavern but turns after a few paces when Rainer hasn’t followed. Thom’s not quite sure whether he’s ready to face it yet. The place might be bustling with hungry guards and less than noble guests, but it’s still far too empty in his heart. He asks No One to bring their food to the stables again; he lies and says he wants to work on his carving. He’ll get back in there one day; he knows he will, he had managed to enter Liddy’s room eventually.

The Inquisitor arrives before his food does, he’s dressed in an outfit deserving of a man of his deific stature. Deep blues and stunning golds, with a thick overcoat lined with rich fur to keep the chill away. Thom still wears the clothes he has had for years, and almost all of them had re-sewn seams.

“I believe Leliana informed you of our impending guest.” Goddard states with a smile. It’s a true smile, a small upturn of thin lips with the crinkling at the edges of his eyes. He’s in a good mood for whatever reason has taken him, and Thom can’t fault him for that.

“The Warden Commander, yes.” He feels his gut churn, and he blames it on the absence of a decent meal.

“I had mentioned you as a courtesy, no doubt the Wardens across Thedas will know of the, ah, the,” he pauses and rolls his wrist, lost for a kind enough word. Thom knows there isn’t one. “I mean to say if he wishes to conscript you I cannot go against his word. Herald or no, the Right of Conscription is infallible.”

“Ah.” Thom nods. He would join the Grey Wardens if he had to, he had intended to all those years ago after all. He wondered if it were true that all crimes were forgotten once you took the Grey, including pretending to be a Warden. Thom couldn’t imagine it. They might forget murder and thievery, but pretenders sat on ledges with their backs to the crowd.

“He will be here in a few days shy of two months.” He sniffed as he turned his head, checking his surroundings before stepping closer. Goddard drops his voice to a whisper “If you’d like to avoid him I have business that needs be done elsewhere.”

“Is that a command, My Lord?” Thom almost feels insulted. Almost as if he was being swept under the rug, something the Inquisitor felt ashamed to have in Skyhold.

“Just an opportunity.” He says, “We may have had our differences, but we were friends once, and I’d hate to lose a good soldier, Thom.”

“Thank you.” Thom lets a minor smile curl under his moustache; the Inquisitor does look genuine in his request. “If it’s all the same, I’d like to stay.”

“It is entirely your decision; I can have others sort it out. Enjoy your day, Ser Rainier.” Goddard nods and pivots to leave. No One walks by him through the large barn doors, a tray of food in hand, and halts the Inquisitor in his tracks.

“Have we met before, Serah?” Goddard asks, his brows twitching in thought. It’s a pain in his chest at the sight of the shorter man; he looks so much like Florent it almost makes him queasy with memories.

Florent had been a tutor in the Herald’s youth, a chevalier with a crippled thigh. Goddard had been familiar with the jousting scar that pierced the flesh, large rippling pink circles with stitching scars to adorn it. The relationship had been brief, hidden until it wasn’t. It had ended tersely with unfavourable and unkind words from Goddard’s father, they hadn’t met again, but it had set the course that the Inquisitor would follow for a lifetime.

“No.” He said, turning to face the nobleman. No One drums his fingers on the underside of the tray he’s holding. He blinks hard to stop himself from checking the exits, the gates are open, the stable doors are open, and he can flee if he needs to.

“Perhaps I knew your parents,” Did Florent ever have children? “What’s your name?”

“Luin.” No One shrugs. “Saile.” It’s the name of a man he met four years ago in a Tantervalian prison, and the Inquisitor thankfully takes it as truth. He does his best curtsey as Trevelyan leaves with a simple nod. He could have made a name up, but what are the odds that the Herald of Andraste could know an Antivan with a lust for fraud and mockery?

Thom raises an eyebrow as he plucks the tray from No One’s fingers. There’s two bowls of sweet yellow stew, a buttered loaf sliced in half, and three bottles of ale. It smells divine.

“Luin?”

“It’s not my name.” No One laughs and takes a seat on the desk. Nobility were less likely to ever accept ‘No One’ as a name, more often than not they prodded and poked until he gave them an actual name. Then they wore a particular smug grin over how good their interrogation and threatening skills were. “Just someone I met once.”

No One pulls his iron teeth from his mouth and holds them in his grip as he eats. He slices off the crusty edges of his half loaf and dips them into the soup until they’re soggy and dripping, shoving them into his mouth with equally wet fingers. Thom’s face screws up at the thought of eating soaked bread, and No One moves his teeth to his other hand further from Rainier.

“Would you use my name like that?” He asks him, quickly spooning the cooling liquid into his mouth. The teeth are an easy distraction for his lips, and it takes mental strength not to ask any questions about them. Thom’s glad he can see that he does have real teeth still in his jaw, even if he is purposefully eating soft foods. No One’s answer is muffled for the bread held in his cheeks as he chews.

“Too many people know you.” No One repeats with an empty mouth and a rolling motion in his wrist. The unsaid words fall back heavy into his lungs. There’s a line he won’t cross, and that’s using family or friends as scapegoats. He could have done it a thousand times. _Hold your tongue, my father is a Duke_. That would have got him out of a lot of trouble. _My name is Armel, Orlan, Frederic, Phillipe,_ and a thousand other cousins and uncles. But he wouldn’t do that, couldn’t do that. Thom’s name was added to that list, was he a friend or family though. No One couldn’t place him.

“Luin was a petty criminal, liked to sell strange trinkets claiming they were divine. Oh, and he gave me this-” He pats himself down with one hand, the other stirring the soup with crumbs floating in, and reveals a sovereign from under his rags. “It’s fake.”

Thom bites down on the coin’s unmoving frame, and then uses his thumbnail to scratch some of the thicker paint off. It’s a good copy, he thinks, not enough to hand it over alone. But a few here and there in a large pile and it would blend right in. He tries to figure out where No One stashes it after he gives it back, but under all the folds it seems to vanish entirely.

No One finishes his food first, drinking the soup straight from the bowl and leaving a good chunk of bread left in a puddle. Two ales slip down his throat before Thom gets the chance to touch his own. The teeth go back in with a grunt, and Rainier’s questions about them remain in his own throat.

“If I asked your name would you tell me?” Thom leans forward and gently raps his knuckles on No One’s forearm. “You said you’d do it on a bastard’s honour.”

“I’m a very expensive bastard.” No One laughs and pats Thom’s hand. He doesn’t want to tell him. But it hurts, because that had always been a sign that it was time to go. Usually people lasted a few days or a week at most; Rainier had run with it for a fair few months. Skyhold had slowly become a home for him, and now he felt foolish for even making the attempt of building a life.

“I can respect that.” Thom said. “I won’t ask again.” No One glances back at Rainier, then away at his nails. He picks at them with a smile threatening to overtake his lips. He knocks his knee against Thom’s arm once more, grinning when the man smiles back at him. No One felt a fool for a whole litany of other reasons now.

Rainier says his goodbyes when a scout comes to collect him, hasty words about an emergency meeting with the Herald’s companions, and No One is left in the barn with Master Dennet toiling away in the corner. He looks at No One from the corner of his eye, and frowns at his own thoughts. _Lying to the Inquisitor, shameful._

Thom can’t help but worry as he jogs to the war room. The last time something like this had happened was just after they had arrested Alexius. It had been a risk on the Inquisitor’s part, belying important information to a group of people he had only just met. But it had solidified their bond and trust in one another, not that Thom hadn’t smashed it all to pieces several months ago. He’s arrives just before Dorian, who strolls in moments before The Iron Bull does.

Trevelyan looks grave. Off to one side he’s whispering to Cullen with vague empty motions with his hands. The commander looks like he’d rather be anywhere else and he doesn’t take too kindly to Thom staring at him. Thom’s spent too long with other people, forgetting the animosity between them and him. No One treated him like he had never done any wrong, and the woodcutters were happy for another worker to share their load. Now it feels like he’s swinging far above his own weight.

“We have information on Corypheus’ whereabouts. Our scouts tell us he searches ancient Elven ruins, Morrigan believes he is looking for a mirror capable of taking him to the Fade. It’s called an Eluvian, I believe.” Goddard stated, drawing the attention of the room. He points to several small chess pieces placed across the map tied with faded string. “He has moved since, though we have his previous locations marked. He is travelling with Samson, so he’s heavily armed and armoured.”

“We had an Eluvian back in Kirkwall, it was cursed. The owner tried everything to fix it.” Varric said. He frowns and shifts his weight from foot to foot, and shakes his head solemnly when Goddard asks to see them. “She died in Kirkwall, the mirror shattered too.” It doesn’t give anyone confidence, but it adds to the desperation to stop Corypheus from finding it first.

“Could Samson have had access to it in Kirkwall?” Thom asks. It’s a stab in the dark but Trevelyan thinks it’s a valid enough question.

“I doubt it.” Cullen sneers. Thom backs down with a nod and a glance to the floor.

“We need- _I_ need all of you ready within a moment’s notice to leave Skyhold. If we find out where Corypheus is we need to hit the ground running.” Goddard scratches at his jaw and nods to the clearly stated agreements. It makes Thom’s gut swirl inside itself; the rush of war.

Corypheus had been silent for almost a year; no doubt people had started to grow lazy and believed he had been dealt with already. This brought everything back. The fear at Haven as he fled with Dorian and Solas from the Inquisitor’s final trebuchet. Dorian had stopped him from going back, too many Red Templars swarmed the area, not to mention the dragon and Corypheus himself, even running to the Chantry had almost killed them. Thom didn’t ever recall thanking Dorian for that.

It’s odd when they’re all dismissed, aside from Solas who Goddard kept behind, that nobody mentioned Sera had been absent. She has been gone for weeks, and regardless of how the Inquisitor had viewed her, she did make some good points on the war. She made it all the more human, and less like the death sentence they were all narrowly skipping around.

Thom thinks about cornering Dorian to offer belated thanks for saving him in Haven, but the mage seems to disappear after the meeting. Bull’s gone pretty quickly too. _They’re not… Surely?_ Thom thinks. He puts it out of his mind, better to not pay so much attention to that kind of thing. Perhaps they were just avoiding him. It’s not as if the Inquisitor’s companions were welcoming to him any more than they used to be, Cassandra is still hurt, Vivienne is nobly smug, Varric seems to be the one who’s not bothered by it all. He did know Hawke after all, and if he could put up with him for a decade? His will is solid, and he’s one of the most loyal men that Thom’s has ever known.

“Haven’t seen much of you lately.” Varric said from beside Thom. “How about a game of Wicked Grace to take your mind off of things?” Varric leads them over to his table in the great hall, he prods at the fire before he takes his seat. His chest hair might be on show but the thicker tunics he’s been wearing are an obvious sign to the impending weather.

“I have some new cards actually.” Thom pats down his coat, they should still be in his pocket. He slips his jacket off, fumbling through the inner pockets before finding the parcel, and throwing the garment over the back of his chair.

“Oh?” Varric said, an eyebrow rising in curiosity. He has a few decks of his own; he made sure they were altered so it was easier to know if someone was cheating. Not that he didn’t have decks made for just that specific reason. Thom hands him the deck, shoving the paper they had been wrapped in back into his pocket. “Well would you look at that, half of Orzammar would kill you just for having these on the surface.”

“What?”

“Quality printed, traditional dwarves like to keep the best stuff for themselves. They don’t like anyone figuring out how they make things so shiny.” Varric turned them in his fingers and shuffled through the deck. “Where did you get something like this anyway? Card smugglers aren’t exactly in demand.”

“It was a gift.”

“From?” Now Varric’s curious. A gift of this quality, sure they were used, and traditional dwarven crafts were always more of Bartrand’s thing. But Varric knew printing quality when he saw it. He also knew the expression Thom wore underneath all his facial hair, and he knew exactly what that meant.

“A friend.” Thom feels the tips of his ears start to turn involuntarily pink; it was just a gift, “I thought we were playing cards not gossiping like fishwives.”

“Touchy.” Varric starts shuffling the cards again, eager to squeeze some more information from the man. They hadn’t liked each other at first, Blackwall reminded him too much of Sebastian. But Varric had, at Hawke’s behest, sat down to gamble with the Prince a time or two, even if he had been catastrophically boring. Rainier was much more entertaining than either of those men.

Varric lets Thom win the first round, and then cheats his way through the next three. He’s ten sovereigns up before Thom starts to notice.

No One walks the ramparts when Rainier takes too long to return. A bottle of cheap wine keeps him company and he avoids antagonising the strolling guards because of how high up he is. Plus he’s in a frightfully good mood, even if Rainier had sprinted to the Inquisitor at his behest.

The weather is surprisingly nice, cold but admittedly warm in the sun. A few towering grey clouds loomed in the distance, and No One thinks people know it will hit Skyhold. Whether it’ll be thick fog or heavy snow is unknown, but people seem to be preparing for the worst. With the view from up here it’s oddly peaceful, bright skies on one side, surrounded by the high peaks and fresh air.

It’s a nice place to call home, No One thinks. He doesn’t deserve it, not really, for all of the things he has done he should be rotting in Aeonar. Maybe one day he would be, if he was captured alive and whatever they caught him for. Desertion of the chevaliers would grant him death at the hands of his brethren and a pauper’s grave, several murders and he would be hanged or tainted But Aeonar would be his home if they caught him as a beast. The thoughts sour in his head. He brushes some of the brick dust from the top of the ramparts and leans heavily on them to sulk. It’s still a nice day.

The heavy stomping and thick weight around the back of his neck ruins it instantly. His views of mountain tops and half clouded skies switching to the stone walls he’s standing on and the vertical slope down. He watches the bottle fall from his grasp, bleeding wine as it shatters across the mountainside.


	13. Forwards and Backwards

Thom retires from Varric’s card game a fair few sovereigns in debt but it doesn’t worry him, the Inquisition pays well regardless of your position. After all, the entire fraction boasted heavy coffers filled by noblemen, and a nobleman with his own personal heavy coffers at the head. Almost everyone wanted to say they had aided the Inquisition, even if they had only sent a sum of sovereigns to its cause.

He owes it to No One to go and see him after running off, the last time he had done so Thom had avoided him for days wanting to clear his head. It doesn’t help him when No One isn’t in any of his usual haunts. Both of his rooms are empty, Master Dennet tells him that the man hasn’t been to the stables, and Sutherland tells him he’s not in the tavern either. Thom was sure he hadn’t simply left; his gut told him the man simply wouldn’t do such a thing. Not to him.

Rest comes uneasy for the night, and Thom is up before sunrise from his lack of sleep. His worry grows as the days wear on, nobody else seems like they’ve noticed anything wrong. People filter in and out of the fortress every day, there’s dozens of newcomers wandering in and out of the gates for a simple pilgrimage alongside the merchants and soldiers.

Though ultimately Skyhold had come to a momentary stop for the storm that had passed through the fortress, howling winds bearing chunks of ice a size larger than a man’s fist hailed down on the stone walls. It stood ever victorious; even if some wooden structures had been damaged they could easily be replaced. Thom had stayed in the library, staring out a window to view the gates and the courtyard. He couldn’t have seen anything for the snowy fog that surrounded them, the moonlight seemed only to make it worse, but he couldn’t miss the chance he might see something.

No One’s home had been ruined. The tarp had been lost to the storm, his books and pillows that had survived had been scattered across the courtyard the next morning, and Thom had done his best to collect them all to store them in his room for the time being. The people in the fortress had emerged as normal within a day after the storm had passed. A few extra cleaning shifts had been scheduled to get it back to a reasonable standard, but other than that it was as if the storm hadn’t happened. Skyhold had replenished itself astoundingly well, save for one man.

Thom felt nervousness swell in his gut. Nobody could withstand that storm outside, and No One was still absent from the fortress. He didn’t seem to have any other friends outside of Thom himself, and to vanish so suddenly? It made his chest ache. No bodies had been found in the search around Skyhold afterwards, so that gave Thom the slightest bit of hope. But many areas hadn’t been searched yet with the demon wolf still on the prowl. Search parties needed to contain one mage capable of signalling for help, a capable soldier, and a scout with decent tracking. The Inquisition had several of these easily, but it didn’t mean the Inquisitor was able to force them all out at once.

An hour of searching and Thom manages to find the scout from months ago. The one with ginger hair and red cheeks, another scout told him the man’s name; Caldwell.

“I haven’t any letters for you, Ser Rainier.” He said, searching through the leather satchel that’s strung over his shoulder just to make sure, but Thom’s definitely not on the list for today.

“No, I’m looking for my friend; he’s got long blonde hair, a bit filthy. You and him, ah, before in the tavern you,” Thom can’t bring himself to look at the man, too many images of him writhing on No One’s lap keep filtering through his mind. It’s awkward for both of them, any other time he’d slap the boy on the shoulder and tell him everyone does it.

But two men? Thom grew up in the Free Marches, he’d seen two boys share a kiss when he was but a lad, and his mother had quickly pulled him away like they’d been summoning demons. Orlais had started to change all of that. An Orlesian had been the first man to touch his cock who wasn’t a healer. Then the first time he’d seen, watched seems more appropriate, two men together in that way? They were chevaliers. Rutting with their baggy breeches and winter leggings around their knees, one man’s coat hitched up around his shoulders in the clenched fist of the other.

“I, yes, I haven’t seen him. Sorry.” He coughs and fiddles with his satchel. Thom doesn’t say anything of the heavier red that spreads across the scout’s face and along his ears. “He was up on the ramparts a while ago. Say five days ago, Laney missed her post and saw him up there.”

“Did Laney say anything else?”

“He was drunk, staggering a bit. Told her to, ah, sling it, in more impolite terms.” Caldwell scratches his nose and shuffles the straps on his shoulder. “He went off that way I think?”

“Thank you.” Thom said. It’s a good piece of information, even if it is old.

“It was days ago mind.” He calls after Thom when he starts marching up towards the battlements. He walks the long way to avoid the tavern, and only realises his mistake when he has to pass by Cassandra and her personal training. The thwacking of the dummies sing louder as he gets closer and it’s not simply because of his proximity. She seems to hit harder as he walks by, and Thom tries not to take it personally, but that’s easier said than done.

The mages stop him from entering their tower, promising that no man is allowed inside unless he has written or strict authority from the Inquisitor, or is a working templar or guardsman. Thom turns back, heading to towers housed at the corner of Skyhold. The doors are locked; even as Thom rattles them they stay strong against his intrusion. The mage from before tells him it’s been locked for just under a week, and that they hadn’t thought anything of it until just now. She also tells him a few of her friends told her it was haunted, and with the rifts nobody dared get too close.

Before the storm No One had spent a great amount of time being manipulated by virtuoso magic. Fists made entirely from spirits pummelling him from almost every direction, and a few well aimed forceful shoves to manipulate him into entering an enclosed space.

“What a pity, Dog, you dare to drag me to Ferelden with your failed actions.” He snorted, his voice echoing within the empty tower. He was Orlesian, or pretended to be, his four masks encasing his head and hiding where his true face sat. Viola spoke through magic; having completed the family tradition of taking out his own tongue, he learnt how to manipulate magic to gift himself a voice.

“Fuck your mother, Viola.” No One hissed. His chest hurt, his head hurt, his back and legs hurt. What a bitch, it was harder to find out where he did not ache.

“My mother _is_ your mother, idiot.” Viola snapped. “Thank the Family we’re adopted. I would scarce be out of the same womb as you.”

“You’re beggar’s breed any-” No One bit into his own tongue as Viola’s magic uppercut his jaw. “Fucker.” He spat blood. Viola was a proud assassin. Proud of his trade and his talent, and was in no small way being modest. Even No One could admit that quietly, and to himself. The Family trained only the best, and if you failed at one thing, they quickly stuck you with something else. Whatever you worked well with became your name, Viola played the viola, No One was a Dog.

“I’m only here, Dog, to give you this-” He produced a small bloodied match box and tossed it at No One’s feet, “and to gloat.” Viola bowed, forwards and backwards, and plucked a few strings on his instrument. It needed tuning, his pitch was wavering inhumanely. No One fingered the match box, using his thumb to push out the smaller box within. Inside was a tongue, a human tongue, severed and smelling foul and sweet.

“Is this-” He began.

“Oswin. Your pet.” Viola bowed again, forwards and backwards, “You let him out of the house after curfew.”

“He wasn’t there.” No One huffed and dropped the small box to one side.

“Regardless. I cleaned up your mess, you’re in debt.” Viola flicked a card at No One’s feet, stepping on it with a poised toe to stop the man from picking it up.

“Oh?”

“The Family guide you.”

No One grumbles at the card. One side is painted with a golden tongue, and the other side has Viola written elegantly in golden letters. He scoffs and folds it under his rags, he’ll burn it later but there’s no use in angering the mage just yet. He’s too tired to fight. Viola had managed to fiddle his way through an unpleasant song that left No One’s bones aching and his muscles sore.

Viola bows, forwards and backwards, and exits the tower with an awkward gait on twisted legs. A sharp cry from his viola and the doors slam shut behind him.

“It’s almost time to play, Dog.” Viola’s laughter echoes from behind him. Everything had been going so well these past few days that he hadn’t kept an eye on the lunar cycles. No One tapped his aching fingers on the floor to count on the days that had passed; the cycles were awkward and shifted from time to time depending on how close they were to their partner moon. One should be at its peak during the storm.

No One is too sore to move and get to a safer area, if there even was a safer area. He’d have to find an empty cave, and gather some nugs to eat as a wolf. But the ache, he couldn’t do all that in time. A prayer sits unspoken on his lips that nobody finds him during his turn, but he’s not egotistical enough to ask the Maker for that sort of kindness.

Both doors to the tower are locked that night, No One watches as a scout shuts him in. That girl from before, she’s got a sneer on her face as she leaves, perhaps he should have been nicer. He knows he can’t make it anywhere in time, not without running, this is the best option he has. Viola, that bastard, he must have known, if he’s trapped in Skyhold he’ll kill in Skyhold. The whole point of the Family was to know as little as possible about your siblings. You would recognise them with their golden tongue clasps and their eerie silence, but you weren’t supposed to truly know them.

He strips off as best he can in his state, and lies there naked cursing the biting chill until his body twists its way from humanity. His letters, the few he keeps on his person, are shoved under rubble. It takes him an hour but they’re safe enough. No One aches too as a wolf, limps his way a few steps before falling to his knees. Sleep overcomes him curled up in a jagged ball. The storm leaves him mostly undisturbed, he has to move when the holes in the walls bring ice and crippling wind, but he settles with ease.

No One stays in that state for days. The second day was better because he had a particular energy, a hunger; he shredded half of his clothes in a fit of claustrophobia before settling again. But he waits in agony as the sun rises and sets, as his belly curls in on itself, the tongue hadn’t been enough. He’s so empty that he can’t get anything out of himself anymore.  No One wages an exhaustive war against the beast, he’s too tired to move, and he collapses, whimpering as his bones snap and distort, pulling into himself until he is himself.

The pain caused by Viola has passed, replaced by the pain of abused joints and overworked limbs. The time he had been a wolf worried him, before it had only ever been for a few hours, the morning sun had always brought him around as human. No One clamped his teeth back in place and did his best to shimmy into his breeches. One leg is cleanly torn off at the knee, and his blankets are more air than fabric, all of his letters are stuffed into the surviving leg, and they rustle when he moves. He abandons his chains; they’re too heavy to lift over his shoulders.

“No One?” A voice slips into the tower, followed by a few jiggles of the door latch and a few knocks. “Is that you?”

“Rainier.” He laughs. His throat is dryer than a varghest’s arse. “If you’re the Maker’s bosom.”

“I’ll get a locksmith.” Rainier says speaking through the keyhole. No One manages to sit himself up against the rubble at the retreating footsteps. What are the odds, he thinks, he makes it through the moon unnoticed and Rainier comes to his rescue. No One lets a smile pull at his lips. If it were anything like the stories, No One would be in a brilliant gown, guarded by a dragon, and Thom would ride in on a stallion bred for royalty. But he’s dressed in breeches, rags that barely stay on his shoulders, and Rainier hasn’t got a horse but a dwarf who finds the whole situation hilarious.

The few minutes between Rainier running off to find a locksmith and returning leaves No One dizzy and almost giddy. His vision starts filtering with black spots like he’s drank too much, or someone has clubbed him on the head too often. His toes go numb and his head feels too heavy.

“Maker’s balls, man, what happened?” Thom pushes his way into the room. He wrinkles his nose at the smell of piss but otherwise ignores it as he crouches to look at him.

“You’re welcome by the way.” Varric huffs, his tools slipped back into their casing and rolled back up. “You need help carrying your friend? I’d offer but I’m sure Cassandra would love to bench press him across the courtyard instead.” Thom turns back with a scowl, it’s not the time, and he’s worried. No One’s looks like he’s been mauled, even if the room is empty. He pushes back the blonde hair that falls over his face with a gentle touch, his grey eyes are bloodshot and drooping, and his lips cracked and scabbing.

“I’m fine.” No One said “Thirsty though, wine would be good, that’s soft.” He jabs at his throat with limp fingers, and leans into Thom’s glove.

“Maybe you should take him to the healer.” Varric adds, “He looks worse than the people that we dug out from Kirkwall.”

“No, no healers,” he points at Varric and struggles to keep his balance, “Thom, just- uh, just my, my room.” He slurs and slumps to one side, his head smacking on the wall behind him.

“Come on, let’s get you up.” Thom huffs as he drags No One to his feet. The man stumbles, and his toes curl and catch on every bump on the path. Thom thinks it’d be easier just to carry him and does as soon as No One’s legs stop making the attempt to move. Rainier struggles with the decision of where to take him, Varric shrugs at him. The only time someone refuses a healer is when they’ve got something to hide.

No One wakes up in Orlais. A bed with fluffed pillows, the sun on his naked back, rich blankets and furs swirling around his waist. Maker it feels like Andraste’s arms cradle him like a gentle mother.

“Réveillez-vous, Emile, je suis putain fatigué.” No One moans and inhales deeply from the pillow, it smells like the woods, like sweat, unwashed hair, and soldier’s soap. He pushes himself up on shaking arms and sighs at the sight of his hands. The knuckles stick out; he has stark veins and the ever present valleys of wrinkles making their journey to his fingers. He’s old, this isn’t Orlais, and he’s back to being No One.

“Emile?” Thom said from across the room. He stretches himself away with a few pops down his spine and a groan in his chest. Spending the night on the settee in his room hadn’t done him any favours.

“An old friend.” No One rolls onto his back with obvious effort. Rainier helps him drink half a cup of water, and pulls the blankets up and over him. “I guess you have me there, Rainier.”

“What?”

“I wake up speaking Orlesian, with an Orlesian name on my tongue. You can work that out.”

“That’s not what I’m worried about.” He sighs.

“Bullshit.” No One snorts. Rainier offers him a shrug and a concerned frown. “Keep it to yourself would you?” No One gently nudges him with his foot; it’s not something he wants people to know. Rainier though, he can know, because No One trusts him to a certain degree. It might be a very large degree, but there’s a needle of doubt in his mind that threads together mismatched ideas and bad memories.

“What happened to you? In that tower I mean?” Rainier pulls his hand away and retracts from No One’s foot. “No normal man could have... The mages told me it had been locked for a week; you were half dead when I found you.” Thom’s voice rises as he speaks, as if struggling against a choking grasp. He’s obviously more angry than anything else, upset, betrayed, worried, but definitely angry.

“I’m hardly a _normal_ _man_ , Rainier.” He scoffs, and it’s closer to the truth than Thom will ever know.

“Back to ‘Rainier’ now?”

“I could call you worse things.” No One’s laughter is silenced with a single look from the other man. He’s more than just angry, and No One hasn’t had to work his way out of an argument in years. He hasn’t even had an argument that has meant something, meant that he could lose something, in years.

“Eat that-” Thom points to a covered platter “and there’s a pitcher on the side. I, just-” He huffs and throws his hands up.

“Rainier.” No One whispers, but the man has already left.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My French is pretty subpar, so I'm sorry if the translation is bad.


	14. The Mirror

No One manages to eat almost everything on the platter, he avoids some of the cheeses in favour of the sweeter fruits, but the weight in his gut stays with him. Guilt, he recognises it easily, he is always guilty of something and it doesn’t matter how many times he’s punished for any of it. Everything seems to stick to him like it’s nailed into his skin.

The pitcher goes with him around the room; he drinks straight from it and ignores how the water tumbles down his neck. Thom’s clothes aren’t hard to find. They’re stored neatly in a chest, with the few expensive items hanging in a wardrobe under sheets of thick fabric. No One grabs an old shirt and a pair of breeches that look like they’ve had better days. The fabric is bunched in his hands, and he inhales from them deeply. They smell like must, as if they’ve been stored in the chest too long and deserve another wash, but Thom’s smell is hidden underneath.

“Fuck.” He curses. The clothes are too big, the tunic shifts exposing a shoulder often enough that there isn’t any point in picking it up over and over, the breeches end midway on his calf and he has to tie a knot in the waistline to keep them suspended. No One uses his own shredded breaches to hold his letters, rolling them in the fabric and carrying them under his arm.

For a moment he peeks through to the other room, it houses a large metal tub mostly filled with water. Towels to one side, soap and various other smells to the other. No One abandons it for now, he might need to bathe according the common standards, but he has other things he wants to do first.

Thom’s vanity is mostly standard, a mirror, a jewellery box, sweet scents, and a small palette of makeup. He thinks it belongs to Thom, the bed is large enough to keep two, and the shaving stand is off to one side as if the space was needed between them. No One glances at the door as he sits on the stool kept under the vanity. He places his palms across the smooth wood, and drags his hands across the material, the dents and nicks feel like a language under his fingers. It’s not what he used to have, but it takes him to a different time, and the man staring back at him from the mirror isn’t the man he feels like.

His breath is shuddered when he thinks back. He had a choice to make trying to outrun the chevaliers on his heels, to attempt to run to Gwaren to take ship and risk passing the Imperial Highway, or to head south-east directly into the Korcari Wilds. No One can’t decide whether he made the right decision or not. He had fallen eventually, twenty-four years old sweating through his shit-stained uniform in a high fever which would turn away the most starving of animals. Waking up a decade later in the naked body of a man so much older than himself had left him dizzy and sickened.

The memories are sealed back up as he fingers his way through the makeup box. Thom doesn’t have a thick enough powder for him to use, so he outlines his eyes with black and smiles sadly at his reflection. It’s not who he is, not deep down, but it’s the skin he chooses to wear.

No One fiddles with the makeup box for a while more, rolling the unused brushes between his fingers, feeling them stroke across his cheeks as if applying a blush. He puts them back in fear of falling too deep in to nostalgia. As long as he has known Thom, the man doesn’t seem like the kind to wear jewellery. His lobes carry the tell tale holes in but he hasn’t ever worn anything in them in No One’s company.

With a quick glance to the door he flips open the latch and uses his thumbs to hold the lid up. Inside are one set of silver coated earrings with a small turquoise stone set in, and three completely spherical rocks. Different sizes and they powder the expensive silk lining with common dust. No One’s heart thuds in his chest, thuds hard enough for his ribs to ache, and thuds hard enough his chest to twitch.

The rock dusts his shaking fingers with a chalky powder as he pulls one out. He cradles it in his palm and watches as it sits within the creases. Rainier kept them. Rainier kept them and No One has no idea why he would.

The man sitting opposite him in the mirror looks less like skin and bones, less like No One, less like the Dog or the vagrant or the prisoner. Underneath his hair and his scars he wears the face of the man he used to be. His name comes to his lips, his throat so dry that his first name is but a voiceless whisper.

“Baroulx.” He forces with a swelling tongue. He can manage his surname through cracked lips and a fainting throat.

No One gently taps the box shut with the stone placed safely back inside. He pushes it away and stands on unsteady legs. The pitcher and his letters are forgotten at the vanity, and he strips his way to the bathing room.

He steps in the tub one foot at a time, ignoring the way the cold water prickles his skin, and he sits down low enough that the water splashes up and into his nose. He coughs it up and spits it to one side, but drags himself under the waves with a gasp and a muffled grunt. The water is too cold, his cheeks puff out as he holds his breath, his knees stick out of the water and his knuckles grow pale from clutching the rim.

Then there are arms under his own, wrapping around his chest and pulling him from the water. No One gasps and splutters, wiping his eyes and blinking his way through wet lashes. There’s nobody there. The water sloshes out either side of the tub under his aggression. He does his best to scrub himself with Thom’s soap, lathering it in his hair, washing all across his body, and he forgoes the towel as he clambers out.

No One catches the sight of the man standing in the mirror. The sight of pale scarred skin stretched over gaunt bones, evidence of his naturally dark hair smattering down his chest. He stares for a good long time, watching his gut expand and contract with every breath, his fingers tracing the sealed wounds he can’t remember suffering.

He had died at twenty-four years old, sweating through his shit-stained uniform in a high fever. Reborn a decade later in the body of a man so damaged and broken he had forgotten who he was. What he stood for, what he believed in, what he has left behind. His rational mind tells him it doesn’t matter anymore, but his heart aches. He swallows it down like he does with everything else, and slips into Rainier’s clothes and No One’s skin once more.

No One waits sat on the edge of the bed, debating with himself whether or not to leave Skyhold. Clearly he isn’t safe here, he doesn’t know if he has ever truly been safe since he woke up. But to be apart from Rainier, it curdles his gut and makes him queasy. The man is something else. He can’t decide if it’s desperation for affection or a desire he hasn’t let himself feel in years. There is something there, between them, even if it is only on No One’s behalf.

Rainier’s there at the door just as No One stands to leave. They’re both stunned for a moment to see the other, Thom had expected the man to be asleep, No One hadn’t expected to see him at all.

“You should be resting.” Thom says gently. He has a box under one arm, the other closing the door and dropping the latch. “I have some draughts from the healer. To build up your stamina, and some lyrium.”

“Lyrium?” No One’s ears prick at the word. He hadn’t told Thom about the lyrium, how far had he let the healer, that he specifically hadn’t wanted, poke at him?

“He was unsure if you were an apostate or not.” Thom sniffs and he makes the short journey to sit beside him on the bed. “He told me that the lyrium in your mouth guard had probably kept you alive for so long.”

“I didn’t want-”

“You were dying.” Thom hisses, his palm squeezing No One’s wrist to keep the man from escaping. He chews at his bottom lip, pulling at the dried skin and sighing. There’s something in Rainier’s eyes that makes No One’s belly turn in on itself. A flicker of worry, a blink to disguise the pain, and a split second of anger behind blue irises.

“Thank you.” He whispers. That something in Thom’s eyes made him feel like someone. Damn his own reflection to the void, and damn that mirror and any he may lay his sight on. He only wants to see himself in Thom’s eyes. Not shipwrecked in stormy seas, but asleep and smothered by fine Orlesian silks.

“That tower was shut for days, the scout who locked it confessed this morning.” Thom said.

“To who?” No One picks at his fingernails, the skin at the tips are calloused as if he used to play a string instrument in his youth. The healer had prodded in his mouth, how much he had seen, and now the scout who had left him in a locked room was confessing to-

“Commander Cullen.” Thom pauses and stops his thumb from rubbing circles across No One’s wrist.

“That old Templar, he thinks I’m some sort of death defying mage now?” No One snorts; he fools himself into thinking it couldn’t get worse.

“She’ll be judged by the Inquisitor before he leaves for the Fallow Mire.” Thom adds. No One groans into his cupped hands and runs his hands through his wet hair. The ends are drying and beginning to take their natural waving shape, but the rest is tangled string and knotted leather. “But that’s for another time. You should rest.” Thom gestures towards the bed and taps No One’s lower back to start him moving.

“Don’t tell me I have to be sober.” No One snorts. He can forget about the scout for now, forget about how bedraggled he looks, and forget about anything that isn’t Rainier and a pack of finely crafted Dwarven cards.

Hours pass as they play, with only a few disturbances of maids stoking the fire. Thom manages to convince one to bring them another tray of food for their evening meal, and a few bottles of wine to keep them both company.

He tells No One that the man has been asleep for days; the healer forced him into a resting trance to keep him from using too much energy. Rainier complains about the strain he has been suffering in his neck from sleeping on the settee. Delivering the unfortunate news of No One’s home being blown away wasn’t one of the best things he has ever done, but Thom explains he collected everything he could from the mess, and that No One is welcome to stay here. There’s no harm in having another bed set up if he wants it. Thom feels his face grow ruddy when his offer is declined, they’re both grown men, they shouldn’t be bunking together like soldiers when they have other options available.

No One is flustered by the offer. A chance to be so close to another person? Not only that but Rainier himself? He wants to sob out his gratitude until he drowns. But he is unsure of how his nights proceed. Every time he falls asleep he ends up injured, or injuring someone or something else with his dream fits. But when he’s knocked out or passed out he rests like any other man. Asking Rainier to club him on the head every night doesn’t seem like a suitable long term solution, or an easily explainable one.

Fatigue overcomes Rainier easily, and No One barely manages to convince the man to sleep in his own bed. Thom feels oddly nervous changing in front of the other man, but swallows it down and slips into a longer tunic to sleep in. No One sets up a bed on the settee, and remains awake all through the night. He listens to Thom’s breathy mumbles, and how he snores louder if he rolls onto his back. It feels far to intimate. As if No One is somewhere he shouldn’t be, invading in someone else’s life.

But Thom had wanted him here. However he had done it, No One had made a connection to someone who actively saved his life, and had stuck around long enough without seeking praise. Thom is something else; he is a compliment No One could give a thousand times over and more. For all the hours he thought, he could not figure out why Thom had fallen into his life. But sent a silent prayer to the Maker in thanks.

Accepting Thom’s anger had been easy, the man had left him with a temper that left a trail of fire. But accepting why he had been so affected, to know that Thom was angered because No One had been missing, in danger, possibly lost or dead. Not because No One had irritated him. He had confessed that part of him had wanted to brace the snow fuelled storm to look for him, and it was only sanity which held him back.

From where No One sits he can see a partial reflection of himself in the mirror. Distorted by the angle, but he is wrapped in furs, with blonde hair tangled like seaweed, and he feels peaceful. It is not the same as from Rainier’s perspective, but it is different from his own. No One _is_ no one, but he hasn’t always been, but right now he knows that it doesn’t matter.

After the sheets are changed the next morning, Thom ushers No One back into his bed and watches the man swallow a draught to keep his energy up. The healer had told him to keep No One bed bound for a few days at least, and he didn’t seem to mind all that much.

“So you are from Orlais.” Thom said. He prodded at the fire as it started to dwindle. The remains of the winds that had pushed the storm seemed to linger for days during the aftermath, and this winter seemed as if it would be one of the coldest in the past three decades.

“Hmm?” No One replied, his voice muffled by the peach he was chewing through.

“Before you told me you weren’t from anywhere.” Thom shrugged. He had accepted that answer before; _No One from Nowhere_. But with every stone he pulled from No One’s walls he began to build a bridge to connect them, and he had no intention of halting the construction.

“Orlesian Royan to be specific.”

“You’re from Val Royeaux?” Thom asked incredulously. Val Royeaux’s alienage was one of the worst across Thedas; he had seen it once or twice. All the squalor, the people packed into houses too small for such large families. He left the fire as it consumed the logs, and took a seat on the bed by No One’s feet.

“Yes, just as you’re a Markham Marcher, I’m an Orlesian Royan. It’s hardly pebbles and mountains, Rainier.”

“It’s just… Odd that you’d say you’re from there… Specifically.”

“Why specifically?”

“Well,” Thom pauses and scratches as his beard “never mind, I shouldn’t have said anything.”

“No, Rainier, tell me.”

“Sera she, she always lead with how she was from the alienage. So I thought you might… But from Val Royeaux-” Thom’s words were cut short with No One’s laughter. Short huffs snowballing into hearty chuckles and then into thunderous bellows. “I appear to have offended.” He added with a crinkle in his brow, unsure of whether he had actually insulted the man or not.

“I’m not an elf, Thom,” He snorts when his laughter had simpered, and throws the peach pit at Rainier’s head, “but I’ll take it as a compliment.” Thom feels his cheeks glow. He might be doing well taking down the height of No One’s defences, but that doesn’t mean his bridge is taking shape aptly, he’s just as likely to be simply tossing the stones into the rushing water below instead.

“What about you?” No One asked, jabbing his toe into Rainier’s thigh.

“My parents were both human.” He shrugged, “I think my great grandfather was Dwarven.” No One can’t tell if he’s joking or not, but he decides it doesn’t truly matter in the end; he hasn’t any interest in family lines any more.

“That explains the hair.” He chews his lip before reaching for a second peach. They both descend into half made laughter, Rainier’s hand rests on No One’s calf as they eat through the fruit platter, and he takes delight in watching Thom catch the juices with his tongue before they escape his palm and run down his sleeve. 

They play coin toss until Rainier gets a visitor, and No One feels like the fifth wheel on an empty wagon. Varric, he’s called, and he even takes the time to ask after No One’s health. It’s a pleasant enough conversation. He even brings a get well soon gift for him, _The Tale of the Champion_ , and it’s a new copy completely undamaged from the storm.

“I heard you were half way through.” Varric had shrugged. The book had given him a lot of money, but half of it was false and he and the Champion scarcely got along. Varric invites them both to a game of Diamondback one night, and Thom accepts on behalf of both of them. Rainier has to meet with Master Dennet about his things stored in the stables and No One is under promise to stay.

He rereads a few pages of The Tale of the Champion by accident, until he can skim his way through to where Thom had left off. He would prefer to let the man read to him; however he may deny it his voice wavered and pitched excitedly with every dialogue. Hawke remained at the Dalish encampment, whilst Merrill had collected her things, and it tells minutely of the Champion helping out a beautiful but troubled young woman named Clara. She sought to end the werewolf curse that riddled the Ferelden wilds. No One feels the book slip in his grasp, and his heart pound in his chest.

Varric writes of four ingredients that Hawke finds through fighting various monsters across Sundermount. It’s odd though, No One notes, that the more he reads the more it doesn’t make sense. Hawke manages to find white bear claws in a country that has a very small bear population, and No One would know for all the painstaking research he has put into learning about wildlife in hopes of curing himself. He’s relieved that Thom had accepted the card game, because now he has an easy way to Varric.

It would be marginally easier if No One had a way to Hawke himself, even better if he knew how to find this Clara the book mentions. To find out if her concoction even worked at the end. What if she had been the one to cure him? It’s possible she could have found him eventually and brought him back to sanity. But the years are wrong, No One had come around in 9:35, and Hawke had aided Clara in 9:31. It seems unlikely that she could have travelled to Ferelden at the exact time to gift him his humanity. But someone had. Someone smart enough to cloud his memories, to lock them away in his mind and conveniently forget to leave the key.

He falls back onto the bed, making sure the page is dog-eared and safe on the chest beside him. There are so many questions unanswered. This curse he had been addled with, it came out of nowhere, and he had been mostly cured within the same circumstances.

The sheets smelt like Rainier despite being changed. Thom had let him borrow his shaving kit, the razor mostly untouched, to trim the dark hairs that curled across his jaw line. It was a domesticity that No One craved, and he was blessed for living in it. Though the fear that it may not last churned his gut, and his reflection taunted him with reality every time he spared it a glance.


	15. Soap

“You want to watch me do my hair?” No One asked. He was still in Rainier’s clothes, only his breeches, and with a thin ragged towel draped over his shoulders for the moment. He sat at Thom’s vanity, a bowl of sharp smelling paste in front of him. It was the last day that he could stay in the other man’s room; fatigue was grappling at his eyelids every time he blinked.

“I’ve never seen it done before.” Thom shrugged. He sat to one side, picking through letters and still trying to find out where his old team were. He already had a small pile of execution dates and death notices from the past, several of them too late to save.

“You’d have more fun watching a whore do it. At least you could fuck her after.” He snorted, he’d climb across Thom’s lap if the man seemed so inclined. No One guessed it was like the first time you watched your father shave. Eager to learn how to maintain a smooth chin with regular grooming even though your own facial hair hadn’t begun to grow yet. He couldn’t imagine Thom spending the time to strip his hair like this. No One doesn’t think it would suit him; he has a face made for darker hair even if it was greying at the edges. He thinks age suits the other man, even though he knows personally that he is clinging to a youth he spent absent himself.

The paste smells foul, it makes Thom’s eyes sting and water, and his nose burns after being so close, but he ignores it in favour of watching the other man. No One starts talking and Thom isn’t really listening. He’s watching how the unexplained scars dance across his shoulder blades, signs of a knife or two between the ribs, the lash of a whip across his waist, and a large pockmarked area just below the top of his spine. It doesn’t surprise him. No One has a scar that runs from his chin to his eye and another that crosses it and over his nose.

It’s undeniably distracting. He can see No One’s lips moving in the mirror, and the way his shoulders ride up and down as he explains something whilst his hands are busy. Thom can’t lip read. But he stares at the half plump lips under a half pale moustache. How they pucker, how his tongue peaks out to wet them, they hide his iron teeth with the softened blue glow as if it was second nature. Thom wonders what his mouth tastes like. If all the wine and whiskey soaks in his tongue like rags in the sea, if the iron prevails as if piercing a bloodied chest, if the lyrium sings a symphony only heard through another tongue.

Thom bites his own tongue and plucks open another letter. He had felt awkward thinking about Raas as he had done, but at least he had been alone then and not three feet away from her half naked. Shifting awkwardly he felt his heart calm at reading the well written words. One of his men was last seen at a tavern in Antiva just over half a year ago. It’s good news, and it’s the first thing he has read to indicate that some of his men may still be alive.

The paste smells fouler when No One falls beside him, his arm outstretched across the back of the settee. His hair sticks up at odd angles in braided bundles where the paste has already dried. Thom catches a glimpse of a scar that starts above his collar bone and falls lower than his breeches. It cuts a path in his chest hair like piss through snow.

“Can’t say it’s the worst I’ve suffered.” No One whispers, and Thom knows he has been caught staring like a wide eyed wench. “Fuck what the Orlesians say; never mix business and pleasure, Rainier.” He shuffles down his breeches far enough that Thom can see how it follows its journey into No One’s pubic hair.

He remembers the night well. Thirty-eight years old and quivering like a first time cunt as a woman half his age rides his cock.

“Work for me instead, Dog.” She had gasped. She had the most perfect pair of tits, large and heavy resting across the folds of belly. It hadn’t taken her long to seduce him into bed, nor to grab a dagger and slice across his torso when he had refused to work for her. The Piss Merchant had been thrilled with his loyalty, but had him lashed for sleeping with an Adult of The Family.

“Vague.” Thom snorts with a tip to his head. “But I’ll take it.” No One sends him a grin and picks at the blankets that are draped over the back of the settee. He knows how easy it would be to grab the back of Rainier’s neck and massage the tense muscles there. To bring him in a touch closer for a kiss. He abandons the thought but keeps the would-be memory in his mind.

No One is off the seat within the hour, and sitting beside the tub of ice cold water wondering whether it’s appropriate to strip off of not. He unlaces the breeches, and then reties them back up three times over before Thom knocks on the door. Politely he enters, and points out that the water can be heated if you drop a few runes into it. He feels his hands go clammy as Thom reaches around him, plucking the carved stones and setting them equally apart in the tub. Four is a good number to use, five is better for steaming the room up, and seven tends to leave you looking like a lobster when you exit the tub.

Thom feels a swell of something this close to the other man; No One smells like his own soap. Generic stuff, usually it’s bought in large slabs, and broken down into small chunks for soldiers to share. But he doesn’t smell like the flowers he had done once, nor of alcohol or sweat. Though the overwhelming scent of hair paste is still lingering unpleasantly.

Rainier is offered the bath first, as the water will have to be thrown out after No One has washed his hair. But he turns him down. Rainier had spent the morning out with the woodcutters, Leland and Garron seemed to be working better together, still irritated with each other but civil at least. Raas had been thrilled to see him, she told him that Clayton had thrown out his back carrying too much and they’d been a worker down for a week now. But he hadn’t done enough work to warrant a bath, not yet at least.

No One tentatively places a hand into the water. He sighs at its heat wetting up to his wrist. Maker he hasn’t had a hot bath like this in years, the last had been in one of the estates his family had owned when he was twenty-three. A large marble tub with gold lining and Dwarven piping that heated the water as it filled. But this felt infinitely better as he stripped and clambered in, he groaned aloud and sunk down until he was completely underwater. His breath comes out in bubbles until he emerges with a grin on his face.

He uses Rainier’s soap to wash himself, and breaks a piece off to lather in his hair to wash out the paste. No One moans as he goes through the movements. Years of cold baths separated by weeks of grime halted in this moment of pure bliss. He would stay forever if he could, with the water keeping him company until his fingertips started to wrinkle and he would be forced to step out.

“Rainier.” He shouts through the wooden door. “This is _divine_.” He can hear Thom’s laughter from the other room and his footsteps as he wanders his own bedchambers. No One sinks under the water once more and washes his hair a final time. The towels Rainier has stocked are brilliantly soft, meant for lounging around in some semblance of privacy, far too expensive to be a common rag for anyone’s use.

No One wonders for a moment if Thom had asked for such finery, the towels, the sheets, the sweet scents, and the scenic view from his arching stained windows. He wasn’t nobility, and from what no One had heard, Thom had never even been close to such. On the other side of all the finery No One can still see the soldier beneath, in his basic soap, the common shaving kit, and the empty spaces that could hold a dozen more outfits. At one point in his life Thom might have craved this, but not anymore. It’s not a wise man who forgoes his fortune to experience the life of another, but an eager fool.

He pulls himself out of the tub and dries himself with one of the softest towels, an odd feeling when he is so used to old rags. It’s as if Rainier is a form of limbo between who No One is now and who he used to be, with both palms outstretched, one hand holding finery and rich fabrics, the other holding common rags and carvings. The image works better if Thom is the traditional Tevinter judge holding up the scales which hold his choices, it’s more poetic but it holds a heavier truth that No One would like to admit.

A sliver of regret coils in his belly, he had told Thom several things already. Though not enough for anyone to figure out who he truly was, but enough to do something he’s sure. It’s an unpleasant thought he’s pulled out of when he hears the outer door open, and another person step in. The voices are muffled but he strains to hear what he can.

“-and he’s here?”

“He doesn’t have a room, My Lord, not anymore.” Thom said, “I couldn’t leave him out on his own, and this room is plenty big enough.”

“You don’t have to explain yourself, Thom. I’m the last person to judge anything of the sort. He’s in the bathing room?”

“Yes, My Lord.”

“Serah Saile, it’s the Inquisitor, I wondered if it might be possible to have a word with you.” Goddard spoke through the door, “I apologise for the intrusion, though it is important that we speak.” No One chewed his lip as he pulled on his breeches. The last time he had been near Trevelyan he had a viable escape route, this time he has nothing but a fall from a window he couldn’t possibly survive. Shattered legs weren’t the best for running on even if he did live through it.

“Give me a minute.” He huffs and throws a large towel over his shoulders to hide his body, and the glass perfume bottle he has in hand. No One steps out braced to find half a score of men waiting, though is only greeted by Thom and the Inquisitor. He keeps a firm grip on the bottle in any case.

“I heard from Serah Tethras that you had awoken a few days ago, I thought it best to leave you some time to recuperate before I came to ask questions.” Goddard said. He wore heavy burgundy fabrics with golden trims and fur lining inside, stood next to Thom who wore slippers and wood chips over his coat he looked impeccably royal. “The scout, Serah Wendelle Lane, admitted to my associate that she had acted irresponsibly, and due to her guard duty rota she hadn’t been able to return to the tower to unlock it, and subsequently rescue you.”

“A good thing Rainier was there.”

“Indeed. We’ve kept her in a cell since she confessed, and I am unable to act correctly without knowing your side of this.”

“I was drunk. She locked me in the tower to stop me from falling off the ramparts; the snow was coming in pretty fast you see.” No One shrugged. “I’d say a week in the cells was a good enough punishment.”

“I apologise, have I been misinformed?” Goddard turns to speak to Thom, as if he were his keeper, “I was told that the healer found him in such a state that-”

“I’ve had worse.” No One interrupted with a huff.

“Are you saying you don’t wish for this to go to trial after all? It’s hardly normal to allow the-”

“I don’t want my name dragged through the court, and I’d like to keep my shame to myself.” No One sighs. He had hoped that the borrowed name would be forgotten within a week. If he had known he’d be _Serah Saile_ he would have picked something with a plainer ring to it.

“If that is the case. She’ll be demoted, and reassigned to another outpost, but there won’t be a trial on your request.” Goddard nodded to signal the end of the conversation and made his leave. He paused at the door for a moment, Luin’s face still pulled at old memories, perhaps he would have Leliana look into Florent’s whereabouts. The old chevalier would be eighty-two, eighty-three by now? Would it be too strange to turn up to see him? Goddard had moved on and started a family; no doubt Florent would have done the same. He wondered if it would invite more trouble into his family, rumours about a bastard son had only so recently starting making the rounds and that was enough stress by itself.

“I apologise once again, Serah Saile, our scouts don’t usually conduct themselves in this manner.” He nods once more, to both men, and takes his leave.

No One pulls off the towel and leaves the glass bottle on the vanity. The conversation had been a well needed reminder to how his defences had dropped recently. Rainier knew too much, the Inquisitor knew too much, anyone in Skyhold who knew him knew too much. That doesn’t mean he intends to leave, not just yet, not when he would have to leave Rainier behind. The line he’s dancing of whether to let the man see him or to hide behind a hundred lies is exhausting.

It doesn’t go over Thom’s head that No One refused to call the Inquisitor by his title, most people fall over themselves trying to appease the man with Herald this and Your Worship that. The action is the kind of two fingered salute that Thom would admire if it wasn’t aimed at Trevelyan. Sure the man could do with a knock on the head every now and then to remind him of who he is, but he was the only man fighting the breach and everything that came with it. That at least deserved an armful of respect.

Thom gives No One a bundle of clothes to dress in, they’re all too big for his skinny frame, and he promises to get something smaller for the man to wear at some point. No One tells him it is fine, and as soon as he’s got some silvers he’ll buy Thom a set of nicer tunics to wear, and he’ll keep the oldest of his things, unless he wants them back.

The task of rebuilding his small home is ahead of him, and with only a few hours until sunset No One really needs to start collecting things. Old banners are the easiest thing to find, Thom standing in the ruins of his old home with a few wooden beams set up and several non-uniform slats standing in the corner was the most unusual thing to find.

“It’ll put me at ease.” Thom said. He thinks No One’s iron smile is worth the nervous flutter he had at the thought of helping him out. Neither of them have much experience in constructing something to live in, but they build something that will hold up through the night easily enough. Rainier tells him the wood won’t rot since it is old outside construction material that had been partially damaged in the snowstorm, and the layers of tarp should hold in the warmth at night better than before.

Thom gives him a few blankets for him to use, and manages to convince one of the cleaning staff to let him have a few more pillows without fully explaining why he needs them. The thickest blanket, made of druffalo wool, is draped over No One’s shoulders as his old rags had been. He wears it to the tavern to grab a crate of wine for them both to drink, a sort of odd homecoming celebration.

No One’s things that had been blown about the courtyard were returned to his new home, the man indefinitely glad to have them back. The few letters rolled in his old breeches were added to the crate. A sense of guilt turned in his gut as he parted with the rewritten and rewritten letter intended for his daughter. The words on the page still weren’t coherent enough to send it to her, and there were things he needed to tell her that should be said in person. The very first subject being that he is her father and not the man he had always told her he was.

They drink together as the night goes on. Two brass candle lanterns sat inside with them, marginally safer than having naked candles, though it wouldn’t be wise to keep it lit through the night. One would see Rainier safely to his own rooms; the other would keep No One company through the night if he needs it.

Thom stays later than he usually would, time slipping away from them as they laugh through their intoxication. The scare that Thom had suffered, watching his friend on the brink of death and how the healer poked his way around him, had been washed over and drowned with alcohol. He couldn’t say he was thrilled with how everything happened; No One seemed indifferent to it all. But it was a punch to the gut and a kiss all in one.

“You are,” Thom sighed drunkenly, picking at the loose twine on his wine bottle, “You are unlike any man I have ever met.” No One turns to stare at him, his eyes drooping with fatigue, desperate to stay awake. “You are,” Thom fumbles for a word, the word he needs but fog in his mouth consumes it every time. “You just _are_.” It’s the best Thom can do for now.

“I am.” No One whispers gently squeezing Thom’s thigh and reaching over him for another bottle. “I am.” He repeats softer, down the neck of the bottle, to himself.


	16. The Boy from the Alienage

Thom thinks his room looks a bit too empty when he returns after the night with No One. Maybe he’s just too drunk, but the walls seem to tower and they taunt him from miles away, the floor dances like the oceans with its patterned carpet swirling and drowning under the waves.

He manages to stagger to the lifeline of his bed, the lantern blown out when he’s finally safe. A figure is missing from the settee a day’s march away, and its emptiness hovers like it wants to choke him. Thom kicks off his boots and throws them toward the taunting furniture and rolls over to face the curling windows.

Choosing wine over whiskey hadn’t done anything to stave of inebriation. He can only pray that it might curb his hangover, or at least save his stomach from the crashing waves of his gut.

A small army of men see Inquisitor Trevelyan off at the gates in the morning, all of them prepared to travel with him though he orders them to stay. This was a personal matter after all, and it wouldn’t do to have the entire army bearing down on the boy he had never met. Thom offers to go with him along with several others; it’s hardly the best time for him to be riding off knowing that Corypheus is starting to make himself a viable threat again. He promises that it won’t be long, and that he hopes to return before the Hero of Ferelden arrives at the fortress. Goddard leaves with both his trueborn children in tandem, and the men disperse soon enough.

No One is off to one side, still wearing the druffalo wool blanket like a pauper’s cape, talking to a scout. It takes a moment to put Caldwell’s name to his face, but the boy is flushed and visibly embarrassed. Were they still something? Thom thinks with more than his hangover ailing him. Confusion wraps his mind as soon as jealousy starts to brew in his gut.

“So this Wendelle, is she still here?” No One yawned; he slept oddly well last night, only his thankfully empty chamber pot had been kicked from his room. Rainier’s pampering must have done something to him.

The nightmare hadn’t been as violent this time. He fell into the carriage ride, more than three sheets to the wind, with four others. They hadn’t paid any attention to him as he tried to get out, kicking at the walls for the absence of doors, and yelling at them to stop the journey. Emile had been there, trying to flirt with Marguerite, Maker knows why, the woman had at least three men arguing over her betrothal. Marc and Babette had been sat opposite drunk and sour, as they always had been, bloody Marc Cireron. If he had known back then. Marc had been the one to goad him into a fury, a tempest of irritation, aggression, posture, and competition. If he hadn’t been so stupid-

No One pulled himself from his memories and leant his weight on his shoulder against the wall, only to keep Caldwell from running past him. It’s not awkward for No One to remember what they had done together. Embarrassing as it had been, he was hardly one to judge what people liked in the bedroom. He once knew a man obsessed with amputations.

“She’s in the cells I think. Rumours say she’s going to be stationed at Suledin Keep.” He sighed fiddling with his satchel.

“Hah. She like the cold weather?”

“No.” He frowned, “I have things to do if that’s all, Serah.” No One shrugged as the man jogged away, he still looked good even if he was into some odd things. He needed to go and see her, to find out what she had seen or heard up on the ramparts. Even if Viola’s magic was controllable to who heard it, the viola he held still sang every time he dragged the bow across her strings.

No One makes a beeline for the cells, and ignored the way the guards scowl at him when he approached the door. The cells are off limits for large groups, and anyone wishing to visit someone locked up has to be accompanied by a guard. No One flirts when one has to check him for any concealed items, his hands roaming over him tightly; it has been a while since he was on this side of the law. The guard on duty doesn’t think it’s that funny, and sends another to take him to Laney’s cell.

She looks miserable behind the iron bars, sulking alone in one corner and thinking her day away. In the other cells groups of people were locked inside, some looking more damaged than others, but most of them wore the same expression. The same one he had seen dozens of times over, the same one he had worn himself a hundred times at least.

Guilt washes over her when she sees the man she locked away; he had been so disgusting toward her that it felt dignified at the time. But oh how she regretted it now. Laney had seen him carried across the courtyard, his body a skeletal weight in another’s arms. The sight had eaten at her for hours until she found the Commander to confess her crime. Disappointed wasn’t the word.

“Wendelle.” No One sang, bowing over-dramatically.

“It’s Laney, My Lord,” She began, standing up to speak to him on an almost even ground “and I wanted to apologise for what I did, I acted stupidly.”

“What happened exactly? I was drunk so my memory is hazy.” He lied. He can remember everything that happened on his end, but he had been confined to a tower without any access to the windows.

“Pardon, My Lord, but you were drunk, you said some tactless things.” She glanced away nervously. “I came back after my shift to have it out with you, but you were just lying there passed out. I only thought it would be a prank, My Lord, nothing this serious.”

“Aye.” No One sniffed. It’s good news in the end; Viola had gotten in and out of Skyhold probably unnoticed. So it should be safe for him to continue living here for a while longer. He knows it’s impossible for him to stop her transfer to the Emprise du Lion, and there’s little chance he’ll put his own life on the line to help her escape. She probably loves this job anyhow.

The guardsman walks him to the door and lets him out, there’s nothing else No One has to say to Laney. He’ll have the Piss Merchant send something nice to Suledin Keep for her later. She had, after all, prevented him from losing himself entirely within Skyhold even if she didn’t know it.

Caldwell manages to grab him when he leaves the cells, gesturing for him to follow off to one side. It’s a secluded area behind the metalsmith’s workshop, there are candles and a blanket wedged into a corner as if it’s a common spot for lovers.

“What did you say? Suledin’s Keep is bad enough-” Caldwell growls and grabs for No One’s shirt to pull him in closer, “-and she’s a good person. If you’ve done anything I’ll...” His hand shakes as it curls around the grip of his dagger “I’ll...” His voice slips unsteady. He doesn’t know what he will do, but he feels the air tighten around him, burning in his lungs, and suddenly he feels as if he’s cornered himself. He’s not a fighter, he never has been. Everyone in his clan had known it, and he’d left them all behind out of humiliation and embarrassment.

No One’s hand gently lies atop of the dagger hilt and Caldwell’s own, the shaking stops under the weighted grip, and he feels the belt and sheath fall from his waist. The thought of being cornered and unarmed shakes him to the core. How foolish to think he could take someone on just because he had a dagger at his disposal.

“She’s fine.” No One whispers. He carefully guides the scout from the darker area and gently leans him up against the wall. “Don’t pull a knife on someone for something you aren’t prepared to die for.” He adds, and buckles the belt around himself; surprisingly it’s the only thing that fits him properly. Caldwell watches him leave, cooling down now he’s further away from the furnaces and the forges.

The belt and sheath are basic items, nothing too fancy. It has the Inquisition’s heraldry branded into one side; no doubt every scout who didn’t bring their own had one of these. That was something that No One had noticed in his first days at Skyhold; every working man or woman carried a weapon. He saw it all the time in Orlais, so it hadn’t perturbed him, but they wore swords so that they were able to duel at a moment’s notice. Everyone here had a dagger strapped to their waist. Rumour had told him that a guard had actually attacked another, sliced through the tip of his nose in a rage. No One hadn’t heard what had happened after that, he was either stripped of rank and title and sent away, or left to rot in a jail elsewhere.

No One spares a glance back at the elf, watching how he dusts himself off nervously and tucks his fiery hair behind his ears. Had he frightened him? He thinks back to the boy from the alienage without a name, who looks nothing like Caldwell does, but that expression is the same. How much the shape of his ears imbalanced his power over others; it made him feel ill.

He avoids finding Thom for the moment, knowing the man would make him feel infinitely better just by being present, so he may compose his letter alone. Two thick blankets and a fine fur-lined cape to Serah Wendelle Lane of Suledin Keep, and four tunics and four pairs of breeches tailored to a specific size delivered to himself for Thom. He pauses at the ink and wipes his nose to hide his grin.

The Piss Monger might complain, after all No One had done such a terrible job clearing out the Carters, but it was business. Whilst it was incredibly difficult to leave The Family, conditioned and mutilated from such a young age, it had been done. Granted Guisarme had been killed within a week after ploughing his way through village after village. But No One still had his voice, and had only been with them for four years. He throws the thought away and slips the coded letter into a certain scout’s pocket before heading to the tavern.

Cabot seems just as pleased to see him as he always does, which is to say not at all, and drops a tankard in front of him before serving the others. He purposely sits so that he can’t see anyone else, and feels loneliness ghost up his naked ankles and curl around his gut. It’s unpleasant, but at least he’s dealing with it.

The boy from the alienage without a name. He had a head full of black curls, olive skin, and large brown eyes. His fingers wet with the red from his father. The boy from the alienage without a name, his face was so blank, empty, the head No One held by the curling grey hairs held more expression. It’s blurry after that. He remembers Emile with a bloodied pouch, _cut their ears off_ , pulling him away as the boy from the alienage without a name advanced on him. Blind rage in his brown eyes. Emile hadn’t even wanted to participate in the whole ritual, but No One couldn’t have been more eager to prove himself and thwart Marc.

“Quickly now, Baroulx, quickly now.” Emile had said, ushering him back towards the carriage. They had been warned previously that one may only taunt the tiger so long as it is alone and outnumbered.

No One downed his tankard in a few haggard swallows, and Cabot pours him another. The boy from the alienage without a name may never have told him what he was truly called, but he had given No One his title. Both Ser and No One came from that young lad, from the boy from the alienage without a name.

He’s four pints down when a body sits beside him. It’s the dwarf from before, Varric, who tips his hand at Cabot to ask for another drink.

“So you’re No One, interesting name.” Varric said.

“I’m an interesting man.”

“Oh you must be, to capture our fair Hero’s heart,” Varric spreads his hands out flat on the bar top to mimic the outline of a book “I can see it now, _A Fall from Grace_ maybe? _Entwined Nooses?_ No that sounds too evil… _Love_ _from_ _the_ … Ah it’ll come to me.” He hates writing romances anyway.

“Rainier and I, we aren’t fucking.” No One laughs, half his pint slipping down his throat. He feels bitter for it, he wishes he and Rainier were something even if it was just a onetime thing. But that would damage their friendship, and for the first time in years No One truly has to think about the consequences of losing someone important.

Varric feels a grin clawing out from behind his lips; they must be doing something if No One can jump to that conclusion. Especially when he never said who he was talking about exactly. Unless of course Thom had told him about his nickname, but that was doubtful.

“Really? Him carrying you across the courtyard was really a scene, maybe I should use that in _Swords and Shields_ instead.” Varric paused and watched the man drink his way to the bottom of his tankard, before ordering another. “Say, No One, why don’t you tell me all about it.”

“About what?”

“Whatever’s making you cry into your drink, it’s even making me feel bad.”

“Maybe it’s because me and Rainier aren’t fucking,” he grinned, contemplating switching to spiced wine, “you want to know about it now?”

“You could always seduce him with jousting talk.” He shrugged lightly. Cabot came back with their drinks, and No One decides to switch to spiced wine. It’ll warm him up at the least.

“Hm. How about-” He composed himself; straightening his back and clearing his throat “- _Rainier, did you know my uncle was crippled in a jousting incident? Spent a year in bed rest shitting into a cup._ Would that do?” He dramatically leans on his fist and lets out a sigh, “or was that a jest about cocks?” Varric laughs at him; the man has a good sense of humour for someone who looked so dour.

“Still up for that game of cards?” He grabs his drink and slips from the stool he has been sitting on.

“Firesday aye.” No One raises his cup to him and lets him on his way. Varric seems like a good enough man; there isn’t much worth in interrogating him harshly about the werewolf elixir. It’s still the most present thing in No One’s mind, but he can ask later, he will ask later.

Thom had spent the day training with Sutherland, the lad is getting good, and he does his best to take his mind off of No One. Having spent the last few days in his, and only his, company, it’s a bit of a shock to find himself not playing nursemaid. Especially when No One runs off at the first moment to Caldwell. Was that why No One didn’t want to stay with him?

He doesn’t know why he’s feeling so jealous over it all, it’s embarrassing. Thom can remember fighting over a girl in his youth, a fuck up of a tavern brawl, turns out she was married and her husband was brick shithouse and a half compared to them. Would he fight Caldwell over No One? The whole idea is ridiculous.

Sutherland’s pommel cracks across his jaw when he’s distracted, and he’s got a mouth full of dirt and a split lip before he realises that he’s being helped up. He apologises before Thom waves him off, checks he still has all of his teeth with a probing tongue, and they start again. Thom gets dropped a few more times before Sutherland calls it all off. It’s hardly training when your opponent isn’t really trying.

“Thom is everything-” Sutherland said, interrupted by the other man currently wiping blood from his own mouth.

“How’re you and Shayd doing?” It’s a good enough topic for now. He’s listened to him ramble on about her for hours before, and he could use the distraction.

“We’re, ah, we’re good, thank you. How’s your friend?”

“Better now.” Thom huffs, not such a good distraction then.

Sutherland offers him a drink, and Thom accepts before he realises what he has agreed to. It had been a long time since he had stepped foot in there, he almost feels as if he’s betraying Sera by carrying on. As if she may appear from thin air just to kick him a few times before running away in tears. Most likely nothing will happen, but the thought clings to the back of his mind regardless.

He spies No One sitting at the bar, curling into his drink with the cured remains of a druffalo on his back. Is he waiting for Caldwell? The drinks are escorted by Sutherland to the pair, and the conversation is meagre, his mind remains elsewhere. They each say their goodbyes, other conversations pulling them away from one another.

Sera’s old room had been cleaned up; all traces of her simply vanished from sight. The carving of the wet Inquisitor had vanished, only a distant memory to those who had the luck of seeing it. Blue drapery lined the windows, an ornate cupboard wedged into one corner and a naked armour rack in the other. Thom sits on Sera’s old bed; the cushions and padding all changed and made specifically for this room. Comfier, less lumps, more blue fabric. His mind wanders over who might stay here, some ponce of an Orlesian by the colour scheme. She would have hated that.

“Oh, Sera.” He sighs. His bottle clinks against the window glass in a salute to her, but it makes him feel miserable and idiotic. Thom swallows some and winces at the pain in his mouth, his lip hadn’t fully scabbed over yet and every movement tore at it awkwardly.

“Thom?” A voice says, quiet and feminine, his mind fools him into thinking that it’s Sera for a second, “I saw you come up.” Raas steps inside and sits beside him. There’s a silence that hover between them, not awkward enough to warrant someone to speak, but borderline to make them want to. “Garron asked after you.”

“Did he?”

“Something about picking and choosing when to help.” She laughed, it’s a good laugh, a gentle chested laugh, “We all told him you’re a soldier not a logger.”

“Bastard.” Thom snorts.

“I know.” Raas scratches the base of her horn and taps her fingers on her tankard. “You want to drink with us? Clayton’s back working tomorrow so we thought we’d give him a void of a hangover to deal with.”

“I’ll be down in a minute.” He taps Raas’ arm as she goes, and she offers the barest hint of a wave before ducking through the door frame. Thom runs his hands across the new fabric of the seats and tugs on the drapery ties. Sera is still out there somewhere, she’s made of strong stuff, maybe he’ll see her again one day. He hopes he will at the very least.

No One is at the doorway before Thom can leave, one hand on the frame and the other clutching a steaming cup of warmed wine. He looks oddly sophisticated. Like a young nobleman who’s too deep in his cups and has already had his boots stolen. Handsome though, Thom thinks, despite the unnatural half white grooves in his face.

“Your friend Tethras pointed me up.” He said with a smile on his lips. The bedding sags beside Thom when he sits down, his legs spread open and his back propped up against the windows. “What happened to your face?” He thumbs Thom’s lip before the stagger of pain jolts the man away.

“What happened to yours?” The sour retort slips from between his injured mouth before he can stop himself.

“Arrow-” No One points to the scar that horizontally crosses his nose and under his left eye, “-sword,” he makes a slicing motion across the scar that crosses his lips. They’re both lies, he hasn’t any idea how he got the scars. He can only remember looking at his age sunken face in the surface of a washbowl and noticing the silvery flesh stuck to him no matter how hard he scrubbed.

“Pommel.” Thom pokes his lip out with his tongue to emphasise it. His story isn’t as impressive, not many people survive an arrow to the face, but saying you’ve survived a pommel to the jaw is like saying you’ve watched the sun rise. “How did she seem when she left?”

“The Qunari? Like she was trying to hide a smile-”

“Sera, I mean.”

“Oh. Pissed, heard her fighting with your Inquisitor for an hour or so.” No One spares Thom a sad smile for what little it’s worth. “She looked like she could crown herself Empress of Orlais with her attitude.” Thom laughed at that. The comparison was horrible, but it gave him a sense of relief. Sera would be fine, and she’d have an arrow waiting for him just for doubting her.

No One pats Thom’s hand as a comfort for him, and squeezes it in his grasp. He has calloused hands like any decent swordsman would have, his nails kept short from manual labour, and quite clean in contrast to No One’s. Their fingers, not quite entwined, stay curled in each other’s fists as they drink. No One thankful for the warmth the spiced wine provides his gut, and Thom thankful for the ale that washes away his sorrow.

Neither of them speak; their fingers twitch every so often, talking in ways that their tongues couldn’t. The small room they sit in seems to keep the idea of a proper conversation quelled by speaking louder than both men. A private moment though in a public place, the windows let the noises from outside drown out the noises from the tavern, and the smell of newly varnished wood, dyed fabrics, and spiced wine settled in their noses.

“I promised Raas I’d take a drink with her.” Thom mentions after a short while. Their cups had been empty for ten minutes or so already. No One makes an exaggerated gesture for him to leave, breaking their clasped hands, and then flops back against the window.

“Onward then, Hero.” No One grins.

“Bloody dwarf.” He grumbled, laughter slipping into his voice. A glance is spared back at No One, looking like an underdressed and drunken nobleman surrounded by Orlesian finery. It suits him oddly well, like he was made for that, as if he had been born noble himself. Thom wonders for a moment if that could be the truth, born in Val Royeaux there’s a high chance he came from money. But the way he was now, it didn’t make any sense. He’d had too many ideas turning in his head about who No One was, Thom thinks about letting them go. Perhaps he doesn’t need to know who the man was, when who he is sits with his legs splayed out and iron peeking from behind his lips.

Raas grabs an extra tankard when she spies Thom walking down the stairs and waves him over. Clayton’s there, groaning his way through his next drink, Garron and Leland are both flushed and grinning either side of the shorter man. Wesley’s absent, not much of a drinker himself, but he’s put enough money behind the bar to grab half a dozen or so drinks. He’s the main topic of conversation for the night, Raas talks about him far too much and Garron is there to twist everything she says.

Three hours pass and Thom is almost legless as Raas, she tries to help him back to his bedchamber but he can’t remember all the turns to get there. The stables are easier, and with the heavy clouds over Skyhold tonight it’s warmer than most nights.

They’re kissing when they’re both safely inside. Giggling questions of consent on their lips, and careful albeit sloppy footsteps avoiding the ashes of the old fire pit. Raas sits across his desk with Thom between her spread legs. She’s already kicked off her boots and is using her toes to drag his breeches down. Laughter fills their kisses between grunts and moans.

His fingers pull apart the clasps of Raas’ coat and he sticks his head under her tunic to kiss at the curves of her stomach. She removes her breast-band from under her clothes and throws it behind her, letting Thom taste between her tits, incredible tits he thinks, and grab them in his roughened hands.

Raas moans out loud, rolling her hips against him and holding his head against her chest. What she wouldn’t do to tangle her fingers in his hair and yank it in her grasp. She starts grabbing for his cock through his underthings, mumbling when it’s soft against her palm.

“Don’t bother, it’s, I’m too drunk.” He huffs, slipping out from under her clothes, red faced and grinning, “Take of your leggings.” He whispered. Raas wiggles from them and gasps at the chill of the wooden desk beneath against her bare skin. Her leggings dangle from one of her ankles, and Thom spreads her legs wide over his shoulders before kissing their junction.

His lips heavy against hers as he spreads her with his thumbs. He tastes her as if he were a starving man, eager and desperate, her moans almost as delicious as her cunt. Raas grabs at her own breasts, hitching her tunic above them to expose herself. She feels Thom’s hands slip under her hips and shift her lower on the desk. Her horns smack on the stairs behind her and they’re both laugh after reassurances.

Thom presses his tongue in first, spreading her wetness between her folds then retracing his steps. Fingers slip in when he goes back to her clit, she’s relaxed enough to take two slowly. He moans at the throb of her cunt, squeezing around his fingers. His thumb joins his tongue, rubbing harder and faster until she arches and accidentally smacks her horns again.

He laughs against her cunt, his beard scratching between her thighs as she peaks around him. He slows his movements; she’s content enough just to sit their clutching her breasts with her feet dangling uselessly over Thom’s shoulders.

His thumb moves slowly, gently, building her back up again. One hand grabs at his own cock but it’s still disappointingly useless between his legs. Thom brings her to orgasm once more, but then she closes her legs too sensitive to go again. He has to hitch up his breeches to grab some blankets for the night, Raas having partially dressed and wiped between her thighs and arse before he gets back down. They both fall asleep quickly curled around each other, more sober than before, but still heavily intoxicated.


	17. Daughter

No One feels the chill of the evening wind across his ankles, and he’s grateful that he has finally made it out of the deeper mounds of snow on the mountain. The recent storm and heavy winter weather had created large snowdrifts down the natural pathways, half of them knocked down by tall carriages and now spilling across the roads. He was glad for the cold because the hotter weather was dreadful, even if the icy chills grappled for his joints like a bloody unwanted ankle biter.

His favoured weather didn’t make his journey any less arduous. Slipping from the tavern window and sneaking through Skyhold’s gates had been easy; navigating the dark and trying to keep out of the ever encroaching moonlight until he was safe and naked had been more than awkward. But he had managed it with little grace, stumbling like a blind drunkard playing hopscotch.

A quarter of a day’s walk would lead him to a small cavern that he had visited several times before. The roof littered with stalactites and some of the walls held glittering veins of dawnstone. Further in where the sun could not reach there was an ice coated tunnel that lead elsewhere, the floor wet with a chill that could curdle bones. No One situates himself far enough in that the light and the damp argue over what can claim his limbs. It’s an odd comfort, sitting with his arms and legs splayed out with the cold seeping wet into his clothes.

The small satchel he had strapped to his belt came off with a clink of the buckle. From inside he pulled an ink block, and it’s stained wooden case. No One lays on his front, the damp encasing him; he can feel Rainier’s clothes melded to his skin in wet puddles lining the curves of his back and the knuckles of his spine. He melts snow in his palms for water before grinding some of the ink into a liquid to write a small amendment to his daughter’s letter.

_Dearest, know that my heart is as empty as it is green, but for the love I hold for you._

No One knows why the Inquisitor had left that morning, to seek out his maybe son. The rumour was a constant whisper on the winds of Skyhold. The boy a mere twenty-something, barely even a man, with his possible father just over seventy. It’s a scandal for Trevelyan that much is obvious. At least No One hadn’t been married when he’d sired a bastard babe; though he’s not entirely sure whether that makes him a better man or not.

He lets the ink dry naturally, reading words from previous nights from previous years. Written in green ink, black, red, blue, any ink he could get his hands on before he took his own. 

_Have you married? Have you been in love? Have you born children of you own and nursed them as a mother? Sorrow binds me when I think of you making the mistakes I had done so. Tradition is something we seek in our bloodline, but I pray this stays buried with me._

_What we could have been, had I taken you as mine. To claim you not as I had been coerced into doing, but as your father. Youth and fear led me into a thousand lies that would strangle me in a grave so deep._

A sense of emptiness swells inside of him at past words. No One had gone back to Val Royeaux to find her, knowing in his heart he would recognise her despite the years that he had not seen her. He would sob into her skirts before the chevaliers came for him and dragged him away, for just a few moments he would give up everything.

But things have changed now. The balance of the scales had shifted. On one side is death, lingering like a starving predator behind the faces of his family, and on the other is Thom. Weighing so little he barely changes anything, but it is enough to make him question. He would give up everything to see her again, but guilt would lash his gut into a festering wound and leave him begging and bloodied.

He strips naked and hides his clothes in the small crate he had left months before. The ice had encrusted its edges and held to it like a cherished gift, glistening fingers grabbing at the old wooden panels and attempting to rot them slowly. The pain clutches at him in the same way, pulling him apart and pushing him back together again like a sword too big for a sheath. It fits well enough, but the seams are stretched and the leather cracks.

No One follows the sweeter scents of a group of three cooking meat down the mountain late into the night; a small fawn held up by a traveller’s iron spit. He turns back at the flash of good steel and the whinnying of half panicked horses. He’s no longer the man inclined to senseless killing.

He stalks off quietly, with his eyes on the three just in case valour overcomes them and violence tempts their mind. There’s fresh prey close by that puts up less of a fight. Nugs, of course, delicious to a beast but arguably foul by a human’s tongue. No One eats them regardless, and carries one back to the cave to chew on through the sunrise. The group don’t resurface, and he’s glad for that. Rolling in fresh snow and stretching in the cold, it almost scares him how easily he drops into the role of beast.

Thom wakes up at some point mid morning, sloppily dressed under blankets with a headache that could knock out even the strongest of men. He really shouldn’t drink so heavily, but it’s hard not to when the drink flows so smoothly. Cabot must make a bloody fortune. Last night comes back to him in flashes, stepping foot in the tavern for the first time in weeks, Sera’s room completely redecorated, sitting with No One, Raas. Oh Maker, what a bloody fool, _Raas_.

Bollocks, absolute bollocks. He groans on the floor and scrubs at his own face before stumbling up to go and piss. Thom has to lean on the wall so he doesn’t fall over with the floor vibrating beneath him. He’ll have to apologise or something of the sort, it’s not as if Raas is a tavern wench he can spend a night with and then ride off in the morning. He works with her on the odd occasion, she’s a good bloody friend, and Thom doesn’t want to tie her down as Rainier if she wants anything to come of it. She deserves better than that.

Cabot gives him some of the remaining food left over from the morning meals, it’s not enough to soak up his hangover but Bull is there with a slap on the back and something extra for the pain. He does most of the talking while Thom chews his way through cold albeit arguably delicious food, and chokes down a tankard of water. It doesn’t help him when all off the working loggers settle in the tavern and Raas is with them.

“They’ve seen this wolf,” Garron laughs from behind him, arm slung around Thom’s shoulders, “the scouts are all out hunting now.” He drums his hands across the bar top and grins his way into a cup of mead.

“Crap.” Bull hisses from beside him and then he’s pulling a staggering Thom with him, fresh air will sober him faster. “The boss is out there.” There’s a mass of guardsmen and soldiers gathering in the courtyard, one woman with dark hair tied behind her head, dressed in expensive but dirty riding leathers, atop a brilliant stallion. Her booming half familiar voice echoing around them, as she addresses the foot soldiers as if she were a veteran commander.

“-Last night, I want a score of soldiers, five hunters with their dogs, and three signalling mages.” She turns about her horse and walks parallel to the ranks. “ _Now_.” She bellows. Nobody second guesses her, it’s obvious in the way she sits across her horse and how she handles herself exactly who she is. Twyla Trevelyan, first born child and only daughter of the Inquisitor himself.

She’d been seen around Skyhold with her father on multiple occasions, in fact most of his close family had moved to the fortress. His wife, Yetta, often saw to nobles as a consolidate prize for those who couldn’t meet the man personally, and Fulton, his son, often helped with money when Goddard was absent. Even his grandchildren had taken up residence, though the eldest of Twyla’s brood was still courting in Ostwick, and she had the run of the estates with her great aunt.

Bull tells him to sit tight and wait until he’s sober enough to ride with a second or third group if they’re called. He jogs off to get his Chargers rounded up as a reserve. It is fear in his gut now, fear and courage muddled in old ale in the sinking ship of his belly. It had been on different terms but he had tried to remain sober just in the event that the Inquisitor may have needed him, but he’s still half drunk and the old man might just be in danger this time.

“I want a second group ready on reserve, we move.” The words echo under thundering hoof beats across the fortress’ bridge, and the men are gone. A few of the woodcutters spill from the tavern to watch them march off. Raas doesn’t come out, and it gives Thom time to think of a way to speak to her about the whole thing. It gives him time to think over what happened last night, memories of before he was drunken swirl in his mind.

Thom had sat with No One for half an hour or more, feeling like a nervous chantry boy on his first day of an illicit courtship. The man’s hands were rough in his own, long knuckled fingers, his lengthy nails weren’t so dirty anymore, but they were gentle. He should have squeezed No One’s hand back, he should have inched closer, their lips weren’t moving for words or voices, and their tongues sat caged behind their own teeth. They should have kissed.

The thought hits Thom like a spear of lightning. It trickles into his veins and electrifies his skin, burning through his muscles and sweating out though his palms. Maker be damned he wants to kiss him, he wants to kiss him.

Humanity embraces No One around midday and leaves him lying naked in the dawnstone cavern. Through the pain and agony he grins, whatever had afflicted him through the last moon had vanished, and he was back to the half day or so long turns he was used to. He dresses awkwardly and stumbles out into the sun, clear skies and an abundance of nature; it’s as if he’s been reborn. No One hasn’t felt this good in years.

He checks through his satchel, his letters are stored safely, and grabs a fallen branch to balance his walking. Tonight is the card game that Varric had invited him to, it’s risky to play, but he needs information. No One hopes The Iron Bull isn’t there, he seems to put himself in the way half of the time and No One doesn’t want the obstacle to jump over.

Two hours of walking and he feels the floor shaking and the sound of a hundred footsteps charging towards him, it is fear that swells in his belly. The heavy clanking of armour and chainmail collapsing in the wind, fear and a certain type of half forgotten chevalier courage he can’t help but choke on. Memories whip through his mind and suddenly the snow around his feet is replaced by swamp-like mud, the trees tower higher and their weight pulls down the branches to hang low. He can taste copper in his mouth, the weight of armour sitting on his waist, and he can smell the foul stench of his own piss and sweat. Bile rises in his throat; they’ve found him, the chevaliers have-

“Serah.” A shout echoes, once, twice, thrice, one rider splits from the herd of charging horses. One chevalier, he can take him down, take his horse, “Serah it is dangerous- Oh, you’re Inquisition-” a woman’s voice, she spies the dagger belt around his waist “-head back to Skyhold, Serah, it’s not safe out here.” She’s off before No One can say anything, spurring her horse to catch up with the others. Skyhold, yes, _Skyhold_. With a deep breath half of his memories slip back into his head, the snow is cold around his toes, the sun on his face non-obscured by drooping trees. He’ll walk slowly back to the fortress, on shaking legs, hoping his memories drain before he reaches home.

No One counts his steps as he walks, and scoops up snow to pat into rounded clumps. When one is done he places is gently on the ground and picks up more snow to sculpt.

Twyla is at the head of the group, aside two hunters who pull her across foreign track marks. She had seen the scarred beast herself, staggering at eight foot tall; at first she thought it was a terror demon with a twisted frame and eyes like moonlight. She’d reached for her sword slowly enough just for her brother and father to realise whatever danger they were in stood right behind them. She knew her father could fight for himself, but Fulton had always been a bit of a wimp even as large as he was.

The tracks are lost within the hour, over run by other animals, or with the snow shifting with the weather. Twyla has to order the return when no more tracks can be found in the surrounding area. She hopes the beast isn’t trailing after her family, whoever her half brother may be; he isn’t worth the lives of the family she has left.

Thom watches as the signal rises up in the air, one shot for immediate aid, two shots for injured, three shots for returning. His gut settles and a wave of relief washes over Skyhold, the group is safe. He had dressed in armour and sat with the Chargers and a few others for the time Twyla’s group had left. Dorian and Varric had sat with them, he could see Vivienne on her balcony staring out towards the mountains, Solas had appeared behind her once or twice to check the area, and Cassandra had been at the gates with Cullen. The Commander didn’t seem at all put out that someone had rode in and stole a portion of his army.

It was heart warming to see. This wolf wasn’t even the worst of their enemies, more of a thorn in their side that had been killing off some important guests, but the Inquisition had rallied to defend themselves with a stunning pride.

“I wanted to apologise.” Dorian stated sitting beside him and dusting down his robes, “My attitude towards you as of late has been entirely undue.” Thom doesn’t know what to say; yes Dorian had been avoiding him or scowling at him whenever they were in close proximity, but nothing out of the ordinary. Maybe he just didn’t notice, but he knows that’s more of an insult than not accepting the apology.

“Thank you, but it’s not necessary.”

“Ah, good, now that’s settled I can take all of you and your friend’s coin tonight without feeling guilty.” He grins. Dorian stands and adjusts his robes so they drape around his waist perfectly, and makes sure he hasn’t got anything stuck to his arse just from sitting down.

“Dorian-” Thom halts himself when he reaches for the man and scratches at his beard. What was he going to say? _I want to kiss a man and I know you’ve got experience?_ He couldn’t say anything without it coming out as a slightly offensive piss poor line and he didn’t want the embarrassment that’d go with it all, he’s forty-six for Maker’s sake. “Thank you, for, for saving me in Haven. I never got the chance to say it.”

“Haven? That was over a year ago.”

“Yes, but, it needed saying, and I’ve said it now.” He nods. Dorian leaves before it gets any more awkward, and Thom manages to catch the tail end of the mage’s hand trailing over Bull’s shoulder. There’s something there, he was right, but that doesn’t make it any of his business.

He knows it’s not right to be thinking about No One in such a way, not after he had spent the night with Raas. Thom’s not so egotistical to think they’d both be lusting after him, but jumping from one bed directly into the next? He didn’t even know if he wanted to sleep with No One, he didn’t even know if wanting to kiss him was just the ale on his tongue taking over. It’s all an uncomfortable muddle in his mind.

It’s not any easier when Raas exits the tavern with Wesley just as he spies No One entering through the main gates. Thom takes the coward’s option and heads in the opposite direction of both of them; he doesn’t want to have the morning after conversation with Raas in such a public place, and he doesn’t want to risk saying something embarrassing to No One either. Thom goes back to his own room, and helps the maids haul water up for a bath. He smells of ale and horses and sex.

Cabot has most of his alcohol locked away for the night, the tavern has been cleared of guests, and the tables have been moved for Varric’s card game. No One is there first, but he had been drinking for the last hour or so, half shaken from his encounter from earlier. Whiskey settles his nerves better than anything else does and it’s calming to sit in the empty tavern until the others come along.

The Iron Bull is there, Dorian, the short haired soldier from before, a dwarf he doesn’t know the name of, Varric of course, Thom gets there eventually, and two women arrive that he doesn’t know either. Drinks are passed around, and the cards are dealt with a swindler’s proficiency. No One learns the soldier is called Krem, the dwarf is Rocky, and the two women are friends of Varric’s from Kirkwall; Brianna and Rosa.

“So,” Rosa drawls, leaning forward on the table and drawing everyone’s attention, “did anyone see this wolf? I saw all of you in armour earlier, did anyone get to go out and hunt it?” There’s a collective no across the table and she slumps and sighs into her drink.

“Tethras has seen a wolf.” No One hums, tickling the top of a whiskey bottle with his thumb. It’s oddly phallic, and the way he wets his thumb with a poking tongue afterwards makes it look intentional.

“Have I now?” Varric laughs; he cuts the cards easily and deals them swiftly. He starts the pool off with a few silvers, and Dorian ups it straight away.

“In your book, something about a woman curing one,” No One slumps at his cards; Bull thinks his tells are too obvious, “seems odd that it’s never been mentioned.”

“What makes you so sure it’s the same kind of wolf? I know I like to exaggerate-” he flares out his arms dramatically “-but our fair Inquisitor’s daughter said it was head and shoulders above any Qunari.”

“I’m folding, a cure for a wolf that’s been picking off people and nobody’s said anything?” No One picks out a peach from the bowl beside him and splits it in half with a knife. He has to spit out his teeth, awkwardly in front of strangers, before chewing through the fruit. In his gut he knows he’s not lucky enough for them not to have noticed, but he hopes in vain.

“If it is a wolf.” Krem huffs, he’s not one to dispute the Inquisition, but werewolves seem a stretch. “Could just be a demon ey, Boss?”

“Come on, Krem.” Bull whines and kicks him under the table. A few grin with the soldier, guffawing when Rocky makes snapping noises with his teeth from beside the Qunari.

“I got told it was a wolf, Leland, one of the loggers, he said he’d seen them back in Denerim,” Thom threw a few silvers onto the pile, “back during the blight.” He steals half of the peach from No One and holds it in his mouth while he moves his cards around. He almost has three pairs and that’s not a bad hand.

“Boring.” Rosa sings and turns toward No One, “what’s with your teeth?” Brianna knocks into her to shush her, the girl has no boundaries. Thom catches his stare, even he hadn’t asked the man that, and he watches as the man’s hackles rise up as he hides behind his walls. He can’t say he doesn’t want to know the reason, but he respects No One’s need for privacy, and his own questions are few and far between.

“He-” Thom starts before No One speaks over him.

“They look good, no? And who’s going to forget clean iron between their thighs at the end of the night?”  He grins, and only breaks eye contact with Thom to wink at Rosa. She laughs and chews her painted bottom lip before Varric pulls them back to the game. No One doesn’t eat for the rest of the night, and puts his teeth back in when he excuses himself for a piss.

The cold air hits him hard, and he throws the druffalo wool over his head the keep the moon off of him and to keep his body heat close. He moans as he pisses against the outer wall of the tavern, he had drank too much and his gut is churning from the raw nug. Every time, he scolds himself, every time it’s a bad idea but it doesn’t stop him

“You have a point you know,” Varric says from around the corner, “I should bring it up with the Inquisitor just in case.”

“So there is a cure?” He tucks himself away and adjusts Rainir’s borrowed breeches so they won’t slip from his hips when he starts moving again.

“I don’t think it actually worked, half of the book is bullshit, all I know is that it had some kind of deathroot in, and that’s not good for anyone.” He huffs. “You coming back in?”

“Aye.” No One feels all the more ill for it now. Varric had been a slim chance, and perhaps he still is if he could prove that the cure was indeed just that. But he’s not going to swallow deathroot on the odd chance, void no; he’ll take his turns and all the agony that goes with it.

No One goes back in with a grin painted on his face and loses all of the money he had with him. It’s easy to do, Wicked Grace had never been his game, and it’s not like he needs the money anyhow. It had only been a fraction of what he usually got from the Piss Merchant, half of it had already been passed onto Viola after he had cleaned up after his mistake. In the end Rocky takes most of the pool, and Brianna stops playing when she’s ten sovereigns up from what she had begun with. Apparently it is part of the reason Varric likes her so much; she’s a sensible gambler.

Varric had promised Cabot he’d lock the tavern when they all eventually dripped out to stagger home, so those who remain are shooed out; the time is anyone’s guess.

“So about those teeth,” Rosa grins and bumps her hips into No One’s frame.

“Oh?” No One hums. Truly he’s not in a mood for it; but she’s a pretty little thing. Her skin is the colour of rust, she has pock marks around the edges of her cheeks hidden under powder, and her hair brushes the ridges of her collar bone. Brianna is off to one side, her skin is alabaster, her shoulders are broad and her hips are too. She looks like she’s waiting even if she is speaking with Varric. Thom’s off to one side, taking the moment to piss before retiring for the night. All of a sudden the thought of sex makes his skin itch.

“If you’re looking at Brianna we could always-”

“Not tonight,” He kisses her quickly, pulling her in by her hips, he doesn’t want a reason to say yes. Rosa’s arms wrap around his shoulders as he dips her, “some time,” he whispers against her mouth, “soon.”

“That a promise?” She laughs and rights herself.

“I’m a man of them.” He bows and steps back to let her go. No One is left standing there alone, waiting for Thom to finish his piss before hounding the man. “Rainier, my man-” He begins, but Thom’s walking away, actively avoiding No One. “Oi, Rainier-”

“It’s _Thom_.” He snaps not even looking at the man, “I made my peace with it-” Maker knows he has. He might have enjoyed the idea of being known as Blackwall after his admission, but nobody else thought it was proper, so he had become Thom Rainier once more. Thom was easier to slip into, there has to be thousand of Thom’s around.

“Someone piss in your drink?” No One laughs breathily. It’s out of character, something vile spilling from Thom’s lips that claws black and red rivers down his chest.

Thom’s irritated; he’s sat opposite Bull all night who had been shooting him looks. _He’s wearing your clothes, you’re sharing his food, he’s pouring you drinks, and you’ve swapped tankards at least four times throughout the night_. He doesn’t know when he became such a bloody girl about it. Six hours ago he wanted to kiss the man, and the thought has done nothing but spoil like milk and its rancid perfume had slipped his mind into a hazy fog of misplaced aggression.

Last night he had slept with Raas, his guilt and his hangover and his disappointment in himself had festered into a cantankerous memory. He turns back to No One, the man wrapped awkwardly in a druffalo wool blanket standing barefoot in the snow, alone in the timeless void between last night and tomorrow morning.

“No One, I... Makers balls.” Thom sighed and scrubbed his face. This isn’t the other man’s fault, and he doesn’t deserve the blowback from it all.

“I’ll call you Thom if you want me to,” No One shrugged, a pain splitting across his gut, “you should have said.” He kicks at the snow around his feet, and watches his breath fog around his mouth. “I used to be a soldier of sorts, we used surnames, and it was easier that way. You know how many men named Florian I knew? _Dozens_.”

“I didn’t know.”

“Even my uncle is named Florent. I mean he was born _before_ Florian became the Emperor, even before the man ever stood a chance of getting the throne.” No One laughs after a pause, “He was crippled in a jousting incident, spent a year in bed rest shitting into a cup.” Thom has to laugh with him; it’s infectious, and ridiculous in an unholy kind of way.

The conversation doesn’t matter, and it doesn’t matter when they stand in silence as snow begins to fall around them, and it doesn’t matter that it’s late and he’s tired and he has enough alcohol in his system to warrant doing something stupid, because No One is there with him. Maybe Thom does want to kiss him, maybe he wants to grab his jaw and kiss his lips, to taste his teeth, to sip at the lyrium that hides behind those iron caps.

He doesn’t. But Maker, there’s something odd in it all. No One’s illuminated by moonlight, underdressed for such weather, with hair and skin as pale as the snow around them. For all his years Thom’s not sure if he has ever seen anything so magnificent.


	18. It's Safety

Thom’s awoken that morning by a scout and a squire. He’s helped into his armour and led towards the war room; the squire, a young blonde haired lad, carries the satchel he had prepared when the Inquisitor had told them about Corypheus’ looming threat. It’s earlier than usual; he must have only slept a few hours after seeing No One safely across the ramparts. Most of the fortress would still be sleeping in their beds, unaware of whatever danger may be taking place.

He hadn’t kissed him in the end. But now he’s being whisked off to something unknown, and that last night before war is always something of an intimate tradition with soldiers. Thom’s ears prickle pink and he rubs them nervously. Varric and Solas are in the war room, two friendly faces he’s glad to see, Cullen and Lady Twyla stand on the opposite side of the covered table. There’s a memory that flashes by him, as if he’s been here before, and it’s strange how much Twyla reminds him of her father.

“Finally,” She starts, “I’m sure you’re all aware of the incident yesterday, the Inquisitor is fine, but I think travelling alone with myself and Fulton was a foolish decision.” She scratches at her jaw and sighs. “I’ve been told that he usually travels with two or three of you.”

“We have people better equipped to escort you, Lady Trevelyan.” Cullen states, almost pleading, and it’s obvious to Thom that he’s the main issue in the room.

“Noted, Commander,” She brushes him off; “if you three would accompany me then I’d be grateful. We can leave in an hour, I have to see my children before I set off again,” She grabs her cape from the table and throws it over her shoulders messily, “we’ll be on horseback so don’t carry too much.” Twyla leaves with a quick stride and the door slams heavily behind her.

“She sure doesn’t like you, Curly.” Varric laughs. It’s evident enough to the four men, though the reason remains hidden to them all. In truth, Cullen was one of the few Templars who had ended up on the right side of this war even before the seeds had been sewn. Twyla’s youngest brother, Wakefield, had perished under the influence of red lyrium, a mercy by her father’s hand. He had been cremated on a commoner’s pyre, with a thousand others who had been removed from the avalanche, without consent. Wakefield had deserved better than that. Cullen had been granted a second chance, and for that, her grief despised him.

The Commander briefed them simply, and sent them on their way. Thom leaves with the squire; both Varric and Solas had one trailing them as well, and he returns to his room. He rearranges his things, abandons some that he won’t need and takes a few extra pairs of socks. The Fallow Mire was wet and Thom’s boots were prone to holes. His saddle is packed, his weapons sharpened, his armour cleaned, and his horse ready within forty minutes. He sends the blonde lad on his way; he gets a quick salute and a Ser thrown at him before he goes.

All the snowfall from last night had settled across the lower courtyard, most of it had already been disturbed with the stomping of soldiers and guardsmen throughout the night. It’s beautiful, he thinks, mighty cold but a winter fortress is something to behold. He’s up early enough to watch the wood cutters leave, Raas steps out of the group with a promise to catch up and makes her way to him. His jaw feels heavier and he has to swallow to calm himself.

“I apologise for running off the other night. I couldn’t turn up with a worse hangover than Clayton on his first day back.” She says with a smile on her face. Maker but he’d kissed those lips hadn’t he.

“It’s fine, listen what happened, I shouldn’t have treated you like that, it was unworthy.” Thom gestures through an apology, “you’re a lady, and a good friend.”

“And you tasted me like you were a starving man, Thom,” She laughed, “I don’t think any girl could accept an apology for that.”

“Oh.” He states, dumbfounded. It’s unexpected at the very least, but it does inflate his ego ever so slightly.

“Oh.” She repeats sarcastically. “I’ve forgotten what I came over to say, but I’ll see you when you get back. Stay safe, Thom.” She jogs off, calling to Wesley for him to wait for her.

“And you.” He adds. It’s strange how they’re all sent out to work again after the wolf sighting. Thom doesn’t know if it’s safe at all, every one of them had been herded back into Skyhold when Twyla had returned with the news. Skyhold can’t just come to a stop at every threat, he knows that, but if the wolf was close then a large group of people would be an easy meal. They may have had axes, but any man could pick up a sword and not every man knew how to wield it well.

On the large carved steps descending from the upper courtyard he can see Twyla. She has dressed in a fresh set of dyed leathers, beside her walk a man, presumably her husband, and three of her children. Thom’s glad he arrived early, even if it means he’ll be hungry until they stop to eat. It’ll make a good impression on her after he was late this morning, but only if his stomach will stay still and silent until they stop to rest.

Her family waits with her until they’re all ready to go; Brianna and Rosa wave Varric off, even Solas has a young elven girl saying goodbyes to him. Thom feels awkward standing beside his horse, fiddling with the straps just for something to do whilst he listens to heartfelt farewells. A cough from Varric grabs his attention, the dwarf pointing upwards at the ramparts, to a figure staring down at them. It’s No One, leaning down with shining iron glinting between his lips. How long had he been stood there?

“We’ll wait.” Varric whispers, patting Thom’s back and shooing him off. No One’s already half way to him when he starts walking up the ramp to see him.

“Here.” No One said. He opens Thom’s palm and places a small carved stone inside, he’d spent a few hours last night rolling it to perfect along the fortress wall in his home.

“Thank you.” He pauses and rolls it between his fingers. “Is this a soldier’s tradition?” Thom had been an Orlesian soldier, but never once had he seen anything like this before. No One had only stated he was soldier of sorts, so that meant he could have been anything, and it meant Bull had been right about No One’s ability to fight. Not that either of them had seen him fighting.

“No this is,” he chews his lip “something else,” He huffs and shrugs “it’s safety.”

“Like a charm or a talisman?”

“I think so.” No One whispers. His eyebrows pull into a frown when he glances at Thom, he doesn’t want the other man to ask any questions. If only because he wouldn’t be able to explain it in anything other than blurred memories that don’t seem to belong to him, and that invites more questions that he’s not ready to answer yet.

“We’re heading to the Fallow Mire, it’ll be five weeks or so before I get back.” Thom pockets the stone, his gloves bearing the lingering white dust, and he doesn’t want to wipe that away.

“Starting now I reckon, your companions look ready to go.” No One nods at them and resituates his stance.

“I...” Thom spares them a glance backwards and signals that he just needs another minute. “I enjoy your company, you know?”

“Drinks on a bastard’s honour then, when you return.” He grins and slaps Thom’s forearm, and squeezes it through the thick leather gloves. It’s a small motion, as No One’s hand slips away, his fingers glance off of Thom’s and he grabs them swiftly. “Worried about me?” He whispers, “I reckon I’m tougher than you.” They’re old words that Thom has heard from him before, and it births a smile under his beard.

“Stay safe, No One.” He nods, and squeezes his hand before letting go, “and keep that dagger about you.”

“Stay safe, Thom.” No One watches him go, and watches the group disappear from view as they ride down the mountain path. He stares down at those left behind, Brianna and Rosa from the night before, a family and someone else he doesn’t know. There’s a young girl in the family, long dark hair half down though adorned with a crowning braid in a true Free Marcher style. She must be around the same age as his daughter when No One last saw her. The two little boys hold onto her hands as they return to the fortress and leave behind the icy chill in the air.

He glances at his own hands, pale and on the cusp of purpling in the weather, he thinks back to his own brothers. Armel and Lucien, they had followed so carefully and proudly in his footsteps, as he had done his father’s, it’s a wonder they never knew about his daughter.

Travelling with Twyla, it’s amazing how similar it was to travelling with the Inquisitor. A few hours of riding and they had come across some stray demons; no rift to be seen, all of them had a string of anxiety stitching them together. Twyla had not seen the men fight, nor they her.

Solas kept a barrier surrounding her constantly, casting it over Thom when the two danced close enough to one another. Varric had kept his aim steady, making sure to aim for the bulbous heads of Terrors with his knockback bolts, and stapling legs to the ground to keep them steady. Twyla and Thom stood abreast, shoulders and shields raised high to tackle the rage demon with it’s burning flesh, making sure to lead the group away from the two other men.

It seemed she possessed all of the strength her father had, shouldering the burdens of the stronger attacks alongside Thom, whilst Varric and Solas attacked from a distance. All went well, and all of the fear of an unknown ally fell away. They rode for a few hours more than what they should have, and Solas kept the area around them illuminated with magelight until they had all set up their bed rolls and sat down to eat. The sun should not rise before them if they were to catch up with the Inquisitor and his son.

“So, Hero,” Varric said “Rosa was a little put out that your friend didn’t see her to her room last night.”

“I don’t see how that has anything to do with me.” Thom huffed, a rag gently wiping away any dried blood on his sword. It has everything to do with him, and he knows it. They had lingered atop the ramparts, glancing down at the shattered rubble, standing with little to say. Thom had apologised for No One’s uncle, and he had told him that he’d never met the man. Florent had disappeared before he was born, but his family kept him strong in their memories.

“Really?” Varric snorted sarcasm dripping from his tongue.

“Yes, _really_.”

“So this morning, the gift, the goodbye, I imagined it all?”

“That wasn’t-”

“Even Chuckles would admit that it looked like something,” He thumbs at Solas with a grin, “what did he give you? I want to see this token of love.”

“It’s not a token of love, Varric, it’s a-” Thom frowns for a lack of better knowledge, “it’s safety.” He pulls it from his pocket, and even though it’s simple in itself, he’s loath to hand it over. Thom lets Varric peak at it, and his fingers curl around it when he tries to take it for a closer inspection. The dwarf’s expression says everything to him, and it’s plenty obvious what he’s thinking.

“It doesn’t seem to be enchanted,” Solas says from behind the pair. They both flinch at the intrusion as he continues “aside from the shape there’s little to nothing spectacular about it.”

“So it’s just a rock?” Varric asks.

“I believe so, though I have seen gifts made from them. Jewellery of strung stone, ornaments tied into clothing, embedded into armour as decorative pieces.”

“Where?” Thom turns to him, the stone safely returned to the folds of his pocket.

“The Fade,” Solas ignores Blackwall’s huff of disappointment, “the Dalish carving them as gifts to leave at the shrines of Falon’Din, they believed it would help him find them easier along the paths in the afterlife within the darkness.”

“But he’s not Dalish, he’s not even an elf.”

“One assumes that as non-humans adopt Andrastian beliefs, non-elves may adopt Dalish culture as well. Unlikely though I must admit, they are less welcoming than the Qun.” Solas retires after that comment, and all Varric has to offer is a shrug. It leaves Thom’s mind spinning, and he’s glad he offered to take first watch.

No One had told him he wasn’t an elf, laughed at him for even suggesting it. Though he had said that it was a compliment in itself. Perhaps Solas was right, perhaps No One wanted to practice Dalish customs, and it would explain his need to be barefooted even in the chilled weather. Though when he thinks back he can’t think of anything particularly elven that No One has said before, and surely if he did want to practice Dalish traditions he would have had a tattoo or something of the sort. Thom doesn’t think he knows enough about Dalish or even elven culture to be making haphazard guesses, and it’s over a month until he’ll be able to speak to the man again.

The group managed to find the Inquisitor and his son within five days, Goddard was shocked albeit pleasantly surprised to see them. Fulton had his brow in stitches, and a bruise swelling across his face. He’d explained they’d run across a rift, a horror had cracked his head against the stone; The Inquisitor hadn’t slept properly since.

Travelling got much easier now they were a group of six, and the conversation was thrilling. Fulton found a friend in Thom, _the bond over beards_ as Varric so named it. He was a large man, standing just an inch over his father, with wide shoulders and a heavy jaw hiding beneath a bushy black beard. His wife remained at home with their two children; undoubtedly Fulton intended to return to her soon, as he spoke often of how much he missed her. She was several years older than him, according to Goddard; she had been born before he had even married.

“He likes to wrap us up in wool, he always has done, myself especially I believe.” Fulton shrugged. They had already set up camp for the night, Fulton was restless and was Thom on watch.

“Why’s that?” Thom was chewing through dried fruits, picking out the nicer ones from the bundle. His sword lay balanced across his knees, watching the trees around them; they should be upon a recovering Redcliffe by the end of the week.

“I have the same name as my uncle, as a mark of respect. My father often told me how close they were, he loved him dearly.” Fulton scratched at his jaw line and sighed. “He died, and I think my grandfather blamed my father. That’s why we never met him.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Ah, don’t be, _Lord Fulton Trevelyan the Second_ has a nice ring to it.” He snorted, “And, my wife still bleeds, so if the Maker wills it, I can honour my own brother in the same way. It’s not the best family tradition, but it’s something.”

“Is it tradition?” Thom said, his voice eagerly tumbling from his throat. He coughed awkwardly; it was only because of what No One had said before, the circumstances so similar. “For noblemen I mean, to name their children after the deceased?”

“I guess it depends, I know a thirteenth of his name and that’s just because he’s named after a famous warrior who died valiantly in a great battle.” Fulton’s voice turned high pitched an sarcastic as he mimicked his absent friend. “Why, who’re you named after?”

“I think it was just a popular name at the time.”

“No shame in that, we nobles do like our ridiculous names. Twyla’s husband? He’s called _Moss_ ,” He stood up and stretched out his back, “on that note I should get some rest.” Thom’s left to ponder on it all; he has two hours before he needs to wake up Solas for his turn on watch.

It’s not as if Thom had never known anybody named after family members, but there were so many rules surrounding names in nobility that he had never even bothered trying to learn them. He half wishes he had bothered, because then he could have guessed No One’s name. There is a chance that the man is called Florent, after his deceased uncle, but even that assumes that No One is noble in any sort of way.

No One had been a sort of soldier, a sort of Orlesian soldier, and if he was noble? That would grant him permission to attend the Academie de Chevaliers, and that, Thom knows, _that_ would be obvious in how he fought. If he was a chevalier then he wasn’t anymore, those bastards were loyal regardless of anything else, and trying to leave the order was like trying to leave the Grey Wardens. That is to say, only death could alleviate your duty. Not joining properly is an easy way to ensure you can eventually leave them, he thinks bitterly.

But it’s all guesswork. No One could have been a beggar’s bandit for all he knew. None of it bodes well for the other man, an absent name and the way he obviously avoids fighting. No One has done something terrible. It takes him back to one of the first conversations he and No One had ever had, where they sat in a barred room and the blonde confessed to murder with collateral. Thom sighs into the night, he’s too distracted, and he has a month left to think about everything.

A moon passes, and No One staggers back into Skyhold, a bit lonelier than the night before. He is easily a lot less worried than every other person in Skyhold, half of them trembling over the prowling wolf that’s stalking the snows, nobody knowing that it’s sitting in the stables feeling sorry for itself. All the better, fear forced people on their toes, always ready for something to attack.

The Piss Merchant delivers his package through the hands of a hooded courier, four sets of clothing for Rainier, to make up for those that he had given to No One. It comes with a letter, a name in red ink, a target for politics. A minor lord who’s causing a fuss over something or another, he’ll be in Skyhold soon, and he won’t be going home.

No One staggers his way up to Thom’s room, bundle in hand, wine in the other, and slips inside. It’s emptier than it was before, much colder as the servants had abandoned his fires, and it felt oddly absent. He folds the clothes and sets them across the chest in Thom’s room; they’re made from good quality Antivan fabric, cut and sewn in a Marcher’s style.

Out of everyone who could have taken in No One, the Piss Merchant must have been subjectively one of the better options. He had a reach that spanned across Thedas, not only do his Children have the ability to travel unhindered, but he has smugglers, thieves, merchants, and probably even nobility in his grasp. No One knows not to take advantage of it all; the Piss Merchant was a debt collector first and foremost, and he’s not the type to start with fingers.

No One lies back on Thom’s bed with his legs dangling off the edge and pulls his druffalo wool around him. The room still smells of Thom, even with clean sheets and the dust settling, all traces of him linger wonderfully. He could, he thinks, untie the knot in his breeches, just slip them down to his thighs, and take himself in hand. It would be the first time he’d done it in Thom’s room; he had managed to restrain himself from kindling the urge when he slept in here before. But now he was alone.

He spreads his legs slowly and drums his fingers across the bed sheets. Would it be too obscene? No One can’t decide. As long as nothing remains of the act he knows he will be fine, and simply thinking of it makes his gut prickle with arousal. He misses Thom, the feelings he has for the man leaves his chest numb, but he knows he’s safe.

No One huffs and pulls himself up the bed, resituating himself so he’s kneeling and facing the top of the bed. He unties the knot that keeps Thom’s breeches around his hips and shimmies them down until they sag around his knees, and shrugs off the druffalo wool blanket and Thom’s tunic. The cold air bites at him, curling around his shoulders like a clinging lover. He cups his bollocks in a warm palm, his other hand reaching forward to grab the headboard.

His hair slips from his shoulders when he hangs his head low, blonde strands hanging like tendrils of light. No One strokes himself softly, spreading his legs further apart and rebalancing his weight. He hums lowly, watching his hand dancing across his swelling length, and he grins at himself. It feels odd, different to when he took himself in the stables. Perhaps it’s because that was just an area, and this is Thom’s room, where he sleeps.

He can imagine Thom’s head resting on the pillows, dark hair all brushed upwards so when No One sits on his chest his knees don’t pull the strands. The thought that Thom might like having his hair wound tightly in his fist makes No One’s hips shudder. He abandons his grip on the headboard and sinks his fingers into the plush pillows, imagining they’re threading through hair, ready to pull and tear at the other man.

No One grunts at the thought. Would Thom let him fuck his mouth? Would he take what was given or would he fight back? Rolling over in the sheets, a play by play of harsh kisses and grappling hands, their violence wouldn’t be elbows and knees but bruises from over-eager mouths and rough whispers of lust. Fucking Rainier- Fucking Thom would be incomparable.

The fantasy blurs when the door to the bedchamber opens bringing a cool breeze on the edges. There’s a shout of _Ir abelas_ and a flash of red hair before the breeze hits him again.

“Tel’fenim.” No One moans, and leans his sweating chest against the wall, arching awkwardly and shoving both of his hands between his thighs. He wishes he had some oil, spearing himself on his own fingers would just be enough to push him over the edge beautifully. Moaning loudly again, his breath wet against the walls, he comes into his own cupped hand, making sure nothing is spilt across the covers.

No One has to awkwardly wander around the room, one hand full of come and the other holding up his breeches, attempting to find something he can wash his seed away with. He regretfully settles on using the dark wine he had brought with him, rinsing his hand over the chamber pot and drying himself on one of Thom’s dyed towels. He ties his breeches and lies on the bed once more, the cold air clutches at him harder, less like a lover and more like a vapid leech. The knock at the door pulls him from his fatigue, and he dresses quickly.

“I have letters for Ser Rainier.” Caldwell said, chewing his lip and looking anywhere but the other man. He hadn’t seen him naked before, not properly.

“And you’re giving them to me?” No One raised an eyebrow, confusion seeping into his expression.

“No, I’m placing them in _his_ chambers; you’re not supposed to be in here doing... Doing _that_.” Caldwell awkwardly pushed through the doorway, clearly avoiding going anywhere near the bed, and stacked Thom’s letters on his vanity. “When,” He started and glanced at No One in the mirror, “When did you learn to speak Dalish?”

“I don’t know any Dalish.” No One laughed, stroking back his hair and leaning on the doorframe.

“You just- you said- Never mind.” Caldwell huffed and slipped passed him again, he had more letters to deliver. It didn’t stop his mind from turning as he went about the fortress, _tel’fenim; no fear_ , could he have misheard? The elven lilt had been there, and it was a common saying even amongst his own clan. Perhaps he had picked it up amongst his travels, or someone had taught it him. But they way he had said it, so clear on his tongue, and instantly after Caldwell apologised for intruding upon such a private moment.

No One watched him go, a frown upon his brow, he didn’t know any Dalish. There were a few words that almost everyone knew whether or not they would admit it. _Shemlen_ mostly, if you were kind you’d have a _lethallin_ thrown your way, _da’len_ was another word that the Dalish used a lot. Caldwell had said er-aba- _something,_ and No One mumbled tall-something back.

“Er-aba-less. Ir-abah-liss,” he thinks on his tongue, working through the words until he can speak them right, “Ir abelas.” It sounded so strange, foreign but homely, as if he had heard the words before. The strangest thing, he realises, is not that he knows a Dalish phrase, but that he knows what it means.

Redcliffe is nice enough, a bit windy, and the rain comes and goes so the Gull and Lantern is full up, but there’s room for them regardless. Always room for the Herald of Andraste, even if that meant they were three in a room, naturally Goddard chose to have his children in with him, and even sent for a healer to give Fulton the once over. Twyla didn’t seem to put out by it all, the babying of her baby brother, even if he was thirty-five years old. Young and broad, Maker he reminded Thom of his youth, cocky and full of shit, swinging a greatsword like a bare bloody branch.

There are eyes on them all, men and women eyeing up the Trevelyan kids, both of whom had pulled off their gloves and wore shining wedding bands. He, Varric, and Solas were getting a different kind of stare; a dwarf, an elven apostate, and a pretender sitting by the Herald, people thought they didn’t have the right to even be in his presence.

Going to Redcliffe had added a day to their travel time, but it was agreed that they’d all need a rest, or so they had been told. Goddard had slipped away in the night, venturing to the jails to speak to the only survivor of the animal attack that had happened so recently. Only then had they learnt that the body of the survivor had been found a few miles out of town; brutally beaten with his guts spilled onto the road and a card in his mouth where his tongue should be.

The card is bloodied, scratched where the guards had tried to clean the flaked blood off, but it was elegant and golden. An odd shape adorned one side, and the other held a name; Viola. Whoever she was, she was dangerous, and it meant the animal attack might not have been as simple as Redcliffe had once thought. If the demon wolf that plagued Skyhold had ventured elsewhere, or there was more than one of its kind, or someone held it’s leash, that posed a larger scale problem for the Inquisitor than he had hoped for.


	19. Adeline

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: Dubious Consent/Underage is mentioned in this chapter.

The Fallow Mire was as unwelcoming as ever, and the group is more than glad when the soldier who meant to escort them further in land had been the man they had come to meet. It’s hard to get a good look at him under his helmet and hood, but he does his best through the heavy rain to gesture them into an old abandoned house a few paces from one side of the camp. Thom feels like an intruder, and he wonders if Varric and Solas feel the same. All three of them were never meant to be here, not at this moment by any chance, he was supposed to be back at Skyhold trying to figure out whether he should kiss a certain man or not.

“My Lord Inquisitor,” He said and bowed, his accent was thick and Dalish, as he pulled away his hood and helmet. Underneath he concealed a mess of black hair, thick black brows, deep brown eyes, and the tell-tale signs of crooked and separated teeth and the heavy jaw that all true Trevelyan’s bore. All of them saw Goddard in the young man, but the Inquisitor himself could only see the boy’s mother. “I am Lei-”

“Mi’Durgen, yes.” Goddard whispered, scratching the stubble that had grown across his jaw. “If we could be alone.” Thom nods and steps back out into the rain, Varric and Solas follow swallowing their grumbles about getting wet again. It’s only a few moments before Twyla and Fulton leave the small cabin, the latter stomping through the mud back to the entrance camp. The scouts have to rush out of his way as he passes, and it’s evident that overt aggression is also a true Trevelyan trait.

They wait for an hour, listening to Fulton’s anger filtering through the rain, and nobody has the heart to say anything, or the courage for that matter. From the Inquisitor’s reaction, Lei was his son, which meant twenty-something years ago he had taken a woman to bed who wasn’t his wife, and she had born a child nine months later and had never told him. Thom wonders if any women had raised his bastard up, it wasn’t as if he had held much restraint in his youth.

“He doesn’t seem like the kind of man to have done something like this.” Thom said. Goddard and Lei are still talking in the cabin so many steps away, the weather grants them a much-needed privacy.

“We all have our secrets, Hero.” Varric sighed, and Thom doesn’t know what to say to him. He stares through the downpour over at the arguing siblings, and he realises that Twyla must have known. Not about the boy, she had no way of knowing that he might appear at some later date, but she must have known about the affair. Going by the dates and what little Thom could do with numbers, Twyla must have been at least twelve when it all started, and she’s a smart woman. Maker what a mess.

They’ll stay for a few days, allowing the Trevelyan’s to meet their newest member, and to make a quick venture into the Mire to check for any rifts. The group had already dealt with two before, but they’re unpredictable things, and demons still wandered aimlessly across Thedas.

Thom becomes the shoulder for Fulton to cry into. The young noble explains that he’s angry and afraid, so aggravated that his father could have betrayed his mother in that way and afraid because he doesn’t want this man to take Wakefield’s position. His brother, his true brother, who had a wife and child in the Free Marches that Fulton had taken in with his own. If he accepted this soldier, this bastard, what would that do to Wakefield’s family, to Una and little Shadwell.

He finds out what had actually happened later, Fulton pieces it all together through his tears. Goddard had disappeared on duty, fallen from his horse into a deep ravine. When the soldiers had eventually tracked down to find him he had disappeared, with bears living in the caves and blood across the grass they could not linger. Months had passed for the family in grievance and fear. Then Goddard had been found and had returned to them immediately. Fulton remembers a ball to celebrate his life, how people had joked about his mother and father retiring early, and then catching his father in the early morning hours training with an exhausted vigour. His mother had red rimmed eyes the next morning, and made an effort to avoid Goddard within the estate.

Thom gets the rest of the story from Goddard later, when Fulton has exhausted his way into his dreams like a young child, and it’s fitting for the way he has been acting according to the old man. A young Dalish woman had found him all those years ago, and nursed him back to health. The Inquisitor tells him he had only spent three months in her company, but it had cost him seven years of pain living under his wife’s unforgiving stare, and twenty-four years –and counting– of regret.

“I love my wife Yetta,” he began, “I have only ever loved one person before her, and not another after.” He pulls at the straps of his armour and sags when it loosens around his frame. Thom thinks he looks too old to be doing this sort of thing, he can see the creases around his eyes and the way his skin hangs off his face and neck. Too old to be finding out he had children he has never met, too old to be riding into war, too old to be explaining he loves the woman he has been married to for almost half a century to a man like Thom Rainier.

“I don’t doubt it for a second, My Lord.” Thom said, and it was the truth. From what he had seen around Skyhold, it would be hard to imagine that they’d ever come upon such ruin, but they were a strong couple, unbreakable by any means.

“I feel as if I have erred in my actions,” Goddard holds up his hand to stop Thom from interrupting, “my first love, I have asked Leliana to seek him out, and if she does then my wife will learn of that and of this new son I have acquired at the same time.”

“Him?” Thom quotes. Goddard laughs at the way Thom’s eyebrows have lifted to his hairline, and the way his jaw hangs open half an inch. It’s an odd sense of disbelief that fills Thom’s belly, that the Inquisitor who stands as one of the strongest and most devout of men that Thedas may ever see, and not only that but a nobleman; a first-born son, who had gone against tradition and had fallen in love with another man.

It’s not that Thom thinks men who love other men can’t be strong like other men; Dorian is as much evidence as anybody needs, even No One is. But at this moment, when all he has been thinking about is how his own heart shudders at the thought of kissing No One. How his hands start to dampen and all the short hairs across his body stand on end. It’s not disbelief, he realises, no, it’s relief.

“He’ll be eighty-two I believe, Maker what an age, and I’m not sure whose family I’ll disrupt the most by finding him; mine or his.” Goddard breaks his thoughts with his gentle murmuring.

“Does your wife know?”

“Are you even listening, Thom? I said-”

“Not that, does she know you’ve been with a man? That you,” he pauses, and it’s odd on his tongue, almost as if he’s confessing to something, “loved a man?”

“Of course,” he laughs earnestly, “Yetta asked me all about him, she feared I would only lie with men and not only had she married an old man but one who wouldn’t be able to give her any children.” Thom laughs with him, it’s definitely relief. “Is he handsome? Is he brave? Is he tall? Does he have freckles across his back? Where is he from? Where is he now? Do you write letters to him as you do to me? Do you still love him?” Goddard trails off and scratches his jaw; he needs to shave the stubborn grey hairs that curl there.

Word gets around the tavern that the Inquisitor and his group have safely arrived at the Fallow Mire, and No One is relieved to hear that Thom is safe, but the question on everyone’s tongue is whether Goddard is the boy’s true father. It doesn’t matter what standing the gossipers were, the nobles wanted to know as much as the maids who cleaned their chamber pots.

No One doesn’t care, he’s been drinking since the moon was hidden by the sun’s light, he knows what day it is. Her nameday, the eleventh of Haring. The day that serves to remind him exactly what sort of man he isn’t; and that’s the kind of man he has always wanted to be.

The bloody Inquisitor, the high and mighty Herald of Andraste has to be the poisonous miasma that clouds Skyhold’s lips on _her_ nameday. It felt a sin just to think about her, he had never deserved such a beautiful daughter, so smart and talented. As if one day, she could conquer Orlais under bejewelled slippers.

Everyone had told him when he was young what a good father he would be some day. He’d seen the way mothers with unwed daughters would look at him, not because of his status, or his riches, but because of the way he doted on her. He carried her around their estates, let her beat him in their duels, and even looked after her when the nannies could have easily done it alone. Nobody knew about what had happened to conceive her; and nobody could have believed it even if it were spoken. He was only thirteen. To be a father at such a young age, when he was still only a child himself.

No One swallows the rest of his tankard and slams it down for another, a few patrons glance over uneasily. His daughter’s mother, what was her name? He’d forgotten it in a haze; she died before she could have another child for another man. There’s little to feel guilty about, her husband had been a wretched old cunt, no doubt wanting a younger bride when she had gotten too old. Hunting accidents grow popular every year.

He rubs his eyes with too much force and makes darkness sweep across his vision; there is something to feel guilty about. The woman had suffered at his hands because he thought she was barren, and No One had clear evidence that she wasn’t.

Cabot pours him another, ignoring the way No One has to cling to the bar top to keep seated, he has bashed his toes against the bar a few times already as he slipped. He’ll pass out eventually; maybe he’ll vomit, or piss through his breeches, Thom’s breeches. He should go change into something else, but he doesn’t have anything else to wear, anything else that isn’t a disguise of some sort. Dressing up as a chantry brother now would just be unholy sacrilege, and he wasn’t about to commit to that, no matter how low he would sink he still had some standards.

“Whiskey, whiskey, whiskey.” He sings, his palm slapping on the bar top repeatedly. Cabot slides him a small cup, made for little shots of alcohol. “A _crate_.” He hisses and forces spittle like venom out from between his iron teeth. No One pours the whiskey into his ale and swallows it down quickly. Cabot brings him a crate when No One starts making too much of a fuss, and the blonde is more than happy to go if he just gets his drink. It’ll stop the big grey blur from watching him at the very least, and that’s a blessing that No One adores, bloody one-eyed buggering Bull.

The crate is full, No One can’t count how many bottles are in it, they clank loudly and blur from one to the next. People move out of his way as he staggers to Thom’s room, he’d go to his own but he’s not sober enough to make the walk. Ice covers the ramparts like an infection, and the damp makes the broken bricks awkward to walk on.

The latch is evil, No One just jams his fist into it until the door swings open and he stumbles inside. The maids and servants had all stuck to the walls as he had passed, trying to sink into the stonework to get away from the staggering drunkard. He doesn’t care, this is who he is, who he has been for the last so and so years. A bunch of nicely dressed workers aren’t going to change that.

“Thom, Thommy Thom, Thom,” He laughs to himself, “Thom’s not even, not even here.” The room is still cold, and No One crawls under the bed covers, laying out the bottles of whiskey on the bed like non-swaddled babies and flipping the empty crate to the floor. So many identical bottles to choose from, he grabs one, pulling the cork out with his teeth, and he throws it into the naked fireplace. “For you, Thom Rainier.” He offers a mock salute before bringing the bottle to his lips.

The drink goes down easily, and No One’s lost all the feelings in his legs by the second bottle. Ever since his affliction, alcohol had been harder and harder to get drunk on, as if his body was building up a resistance. He chokes at that, the whiskey jolts in his throat and he takes a good few moments hacking it up before he can swallow some more, his own body working against him like the rest of the world does.

“What a bastard.” He snorts, he doesn’t quite know who he’s talking about. No One has to roll off the bed to pull out the chamber pot, it still has wine and come in, and clambering back on the bed is much harder than he had expected it to be. He manages it as if he were scaling a mountain, and pulls out his cock to piss before tucking himself away and crawling towards the bottles. A few had fallen to the floor, so No One ignored them in favour of a third. At this point he’s just throwing the corks anywhere, and half of the whiskey misses his mouth when he presses the top to his lips. Sickness swells in his gut, and he rolls onto his front, his limbs splayed out wide. He knows he’ll vomit before the night is through; though he’s not particularly fond of the idea of choking on it in his sleep.

“Happy nameday, my dearest,” His voice is muffled by the sheets, “Hmm, my dearest, my dearest sweet sister Adeline.” Even now he couldn’t say it out loud; my _daughter_ Adeline. It had all been a mess, when his mother had found him half naked after hunting down... whatever her name was -he scolds himself for not remembering it- and then the yearlong sickness she had apparently retained. How his mother complained about wearing a false bump across her belly to cover the whole ordeal up. Asking him over and over if he had a child, just to make sure that he’d never slip up and say yes.

“Oh Adeline.” He whimpers. Blackness seeps into the corners of his eyes, and he can’t tell the difference between the blur of whiskey and the blur of tears. But his throat swells and his lungs ache, so it’s not hard to guess which one it is. No One passes out quickly, with bottles scattered around his body like shrapnel and wetness on his cheeks.

No One wakes in a sweat, his whole body damp and his bladder swirling with the same sickness that rises in his throat. There’s little he can do but vomit off the edge of one side of the bed onto Thom’s decorated carpet. He has to roll to the other side of the bed to get to the chamber pot, his foot tips the thing and spills the contents as he rushes to pull himself out and relieve the painful swell in his gut. He groans loudly as he pisses, and has to lie back just so he doesn’t pass out with his cock out. No One doesn’t particularly care when he misses the pot because the carpet is already ruined. He cares more for the dampness that he can feel on his toes, he can’t decide what it worse, day old come or fresh piss.

He drags himself to the end of the bed to find out what the crackling noise is; somebody lit the fire in Thom’s room, and they’ve even pulled the curtains closed across the windows. No One crawls back into a more comfortable position, abuses the pillows until he can lie back with his head angled so his chin sits on his chest. He drinks more whiskey; whoever had lit the fire and closed the curtains hadn’t touched any of the bottles that swam in the sheets around him.

The cork goes flying towards the fire; it hits the mantel piece and bounces on the floor pathetically. No One washes his mouth out with whiskey taking away the taste of vomit even if the stench still lingers around him. With a stroke of a hand down his trailing moustache he can feel the soft lumps within the strands, his chin still wet with what had slipped from his nose and mouth; he’s had worse. At least he hasn’t shit himself yet, he thinks, small mercies.

The now empty bottle sits across his chest, rising and falling with every breath he takes. He starts breathing erratically and laughs breathily when it falls off. It takes half an hour of drinking before he vomits again, little but foul smelling whiskey comes back up. It doesn’t falter his drinking. He empties his gut within the next hour, and pushes the chamber pot further away from the bed to disguise the smell. Another bottle keeps him company, he passes out and lets the sheets take another drink.

In the Fallow Mire Thom thinks over what both Goddard and Fulton had said to him. He even meets Lei who’s rather lacking in the Trevelyan aggression. The boy is a nice enough lad, soft spoken, doesn’t really meet your eyes when you talk to him, but he’s a bloody good cook. A few wisps venture too close to camp and Lei runs out to meet them with sword and shield in hand; remarkably agile Varric says, and Solas makes an off handed comment that Thom doesn’t exactly understand. He gathers it’s insulting in one way or another.

Thom manages to speak to him alone at one point, with his little carved rock in hand; and he asks him if he knows what it is. Solas had told him it was Dalish, and Goddard had told him that Lei’s mother was Dalish.

“I’ve seen something like it,” Lei says, he has to raise his voice to be heard over the almost constant rainfall, “not from my clan though.” Thom pockets it and nods, indicating for the boy to continue. “Twins I met when I was younger, must have been ten or so years ago around the time of the blight, one of them wore stones like these as jewels.”

“Do you know where they are now? What were their names?”

“No, they travelled alone, and I can’t remember them. They were travelling west towards Orlais though.”

“Thank you.”

“I wouldn’t advise seeking them out.” Lei says, leaning down to speak quieter and more directly in his ear, the boy is short considering how tall his father is. He stands at a similar height to Twyla, even then they're both taller than Thom. “I don’t know if they were blood mages or what, but one commanded a Revenant, and had sickness in his eyes.” Thom nods again, and makes his way back to his own tent, Fulton is already asleep inside. The young noble had refused to share a tent with his father or sister, so Thom had agreed to keep an eye on him.

Lei’s words make his gut churn, this stone, this gift meant safety for No One, but what kind of man finds safety amongst blood mages and demons? It was a slim chance to assume that the men who Lei knew somehow knew No One, and gave him the knowledge of how to craft the apparently useless stones. The thought keeps him up at night, and all he has for company is Fulton’s snores.

The Inquisitor reluctantly agrees to allow Lei to remain in the Fallow Mire to continue at his post; he’s eager to allow him to meet his entire close family. All his siblings, children and grandchildren, nieces and nephews, and all of the by-laws too.

Lei looks overwhelmed at the list of names Goddard reels off quickly with the eagerness of a small child, and Varric gives a low whistle when the Inquisitor stops to breathe. Thom has to hold back his laughter, he has a few cousins back in the Free Marches, but only his father remains of his closest family. The young lad agrees to visit Skyhold soon, when he’s relieved of active duty for a resting period, or transferred under his captain’s orders.

With their belongings packed and their horses saddled they can finally make the journey back to Skyhold. They’ll be travelling passed Redcliffe without stopping this time, the Inquisitor had gotten what he had needed the last time; the small golden bloodied card sat secure in one of his travelling satchels ready for Leliana to look at when they arrived at the fortress. Not to mention the due date for the Hero of Ferelden to arrive at Skyhold came closer with every sunset.

It was a crude reminder for Thom, his thoughts had been muddled by Fulton’s cries, Lei’s abstract warnings, Goddard’s revelations, and No One’s everything. Not only is he riding back with a twisting nervousness in his gut over the blonde, but he’ll be face to face with a true Grey Warden after he had posed and recruited as one for years.

There had been several rumours about the Hero of Ferelden, none of which ever seemed to flatter the man, and only added to the gargantuan shadows that he created. The man, a noble Cousland who now held Amaranthine and Gwaren as his lands, never quite gave off the right attitude for a hero held in such high esteem. Apparently, there had been a rebellion in Amaranthine and several farmers had lost their lives fighting against the Warden Commander; their Arl. Rumours spread that he kept company with thieves and smugglers, and not just the ones who had taken the Grey either. It’s hard not to listen to them all when they all say the same thing. Grey Warden Commander Andrastopher Cousland was a terrifying man.

Thom takes the small rock from his pocket, and cradles it in the curves of his palm, safety, he thinks. He slips it back into his coat when Varric throws him a grin; he shakes his head but can’t rid himself of the smile that paints his lips. His thumb traces the small curve of the rock under the thick fabric of his coat, and Thom wonders if No One is safe back at Skyhold. He had thought about sending the man a letter, but his heart fluttered nervously whenever the idea crept back into his head. The notion that he had no way of addressing the man sanely didn’t even enter his mind this time.

Travelling with a rift between the Trevelyans was awkward for the three outsiders, or at least it was for Thom and Varric. Solas didn’t seem to be so bothered about any of it; whatever his reasons were he kept them from the rest of the group.

“He’s really something to you isn’t he, Hero?” Varric asked him one night. Varric had third watch, and Thom had spent the last hour rolling around trying to sleep so he thought he may as well do something useful. Three eyes are always better than two, as Bull had told him months ago.

“Who is?” Thom turns to him and stops chewing through his dried fish. He shouldn’t be eating so late into the night, but he’s not truly bothered.

“No One.”

“He’s something, odd I think, but he has his charms,” Thom huffed and patted the stone in his pocket, “he’s a good man.”

“He could work on his tells.” Varric grinned.

“He does alright for a novice, and I only taught him how to play a few months ago. I think he prefers dice.”

“So get him some dice, he got you those cards, right?”

“I never told you-”

“You make the same face at that little rock that you do at those cards,” Varric shrugs “maybe you should watch your tells.” Thom laughs with him, and throws fish bone at him when Varric starts wiggling his eyebrows.

“We’re not- We’re just friends.” Thom can’t stop the disappointed lilt in his voice.

“I think I’d be doing you a disservice as your friend if I didn’t warn you,” Varric explains, “he doesn’t even have a name, and he’s a terrible gambler-”

“He has a _name_ , Varric.” Thom huffs, and withers under Varric’s stare. No One might have a name but it’s kept hidden and locked away so tightly that Thom’s not sure he’ll ever get it out of him. He had promised never to ask, and he knows he’ll never have enough coin to claim it on a bastard’s honour.

“Bah, what do I know?” Varric throws up his arms, “I tried to convince Hawke that he was making a mistake with Blondie and he never listened.”

“And?”

“And they’re still together, somewhere.”

Back at Skyhold Bull watches No One as he sleeps, making sure the worse he can do is grunt and twitch whilst the maids clean up the mess that Thom’s room has gotten into. It’s not hard to scrub piss, whiskey, and vomit from the carpet; it would be much harder to lift the bed frame to change the whole thing. The Iron Bull had followed him from the tavern, made sure he knew where the man was going before he stalked away. He returned hours later and had the fire lit and the curtains shut, and had left again.

Now he waits until the maids have finished before he plucks the bottles from around him, and neatly puts them back into the crate. No One had drank over half of what he had bought. Lifting the body from the sheets and dropping him onto the settee had been nerve-wracking for the maids, who knew the whiskey stained bed needed to be changed but hadn’t wanted to disturb the drunkard who lay upon it. Bull had carried him for them, and had been shocked at the weightlessness of him and how his bones gave his skin a rippling texture. Unpleasantly he had to wash his arms and chest where vomit had clung to his grey skin.

Food is brought up to Thom’s room and Bull eats most of it before it can go cold. Dorian joins him for a bottle of wine when the room had been fully cleaned, and promises him another bottle later before he leaves. Bull takes quick naps over the course of the night, and it’s early in the morning when No One stumbles off the settee to relieve himself, and he yelps at the sight of Bull sitting on the vanity stool. His voice it too croaky to speak so he just pulls himself back to Thom’s cleaned sheets and lays down on those. “Rough night, big guy?” Bull chuckles.

“Fuck off.” No One groans, his head is burning; a constant drum beat on the back of his scalp. He doesn’t even know how long he’s been asleep, or how long he’s been drinking, but his gut is empty and he feels and smells like death. Bull being in the room doesn’t make it any better.


	20. Blood on Iron

Iron Bull reports what he knows to Leliana when No One had sobered up and bathed enough to not be such a drunken threat. They might not have his name, but they had the name of his sister, and the date of her nameday which narrowed it down drastically. The chantry kept strict records on births and deaths; if they could narrow down his origins they could scour the texts for the brother of Adeline. There would be masses to go through; Adeline had once been such a popular name in Orlais that its alternate versions had filtered through into neighbouring countries.

The maybe assassin is still kept at a low rate of interest, Leliana wants to know about him and if he still poses a threat, but Corypheus is their main priority. She reasoned with Bull that if the unknown man had wanted to assassinate the Inquisitor, the best time for him to have done such a thing would have been when he was alone with Fulton just a few days ago. His companions would keep him safe on the journey, she had faith in that.

Goddard had once spoken of his name, one Luin Saile, under closer inspection it’s evidently a lie. Luin Saile was a low-ranking criminal, trying his hand at many things, but never truly becoming much of a bother to others outside of the law. She had a scout compiling a list of those he had been locked away with, and a list of friends and family. The blonde assassin in Skyhold wasn’t Luin, but there was a chance he knew him at some point to use his name as his own. It’s with a bite of her tongue she keeps her information to herself, it has all been fruitless so far. It would be easier to jail him and then ask questions, but she needed a foothold before she started climbing.

No One keeps to himself for the following days, he’s made the attempt at washing his clothes, but ten minutes in and he remembered why he never liked washing them in the first place. He accepts he’ll smell like vomit for the foreseeable, and it doesn’t bother him as much as it would if Thom were there. Caldwell seems to be actively avoiding him whenever the blonde seeks him out; he wants to ask about what he had said before. He didn’t know any Dalish words, or at least he hadn’t thought he had. But if what the scout had said was true, which as the hours pass No One believes more and more that it is, then something had happened to him, something strange and something Dalish.

He thinks often about cornering the young elf, but guilt wracks his belly at the thought of using his advantage over him to get what he wants. If Caldwell was anyone else, a dwarf or a Qunari, it wouldn’t have mattered so much. But knowing what he had once stood for, and the injustices that he himself had dealt to the elves, it never quite sat right with him after everything that had happened.

 Knowing that once he had been told to commit murder for it to ring clear in his mind just how foul he had acted wasn’t a positive thing either, and truly he was never forced to act as such. It had been a game, a competition, a celebration for him and his friends. But what kind of man celebrates by killing another, killing an innocent whose name he hadn’t even bothered to learn. Not the sort that No One wishes to be anymore. He doesn’t know whether it’s better or worse that he now kills for money, but he convinces himself by giving it away that it balances it all out.

The voices around Skyhold filter out the question of Trevelyan’s possible new child and they start to talk about the famous Grey Warden soon to be arriving. It’s a rumour only, overheard by a servant listening to nobles who spoke too loud after listening to the higher members of the Inquisition. No One thinks it’s exciting; he’s never met a Grey Warden before. There’s a sort of giddy childishness that sits in his gut.

Grey Wardens weren’t noble, and they served nobody but the desire to beat back the vile darkspawn. There’s honour in that. He likes to think that if all else fails he’d be able to get into the age-old order, he doesn’t deserve it, but he’s got a better chance of living with them than surviving elsewhere if he ever gets caught. No One does think back to Thom, he had heard all about his impersonation of Warden Constable Blackwall.

It hits him when he’s halfway through a roll of soup drenched bread, that the Warden may be coming to take Thom away. The Inquisitor had granted him his life back, though No One still believes Thom’s leash is as tight as ever, and Trevelyan had the power to give it to another quite easily. It’s not a calming thought as he chews through the soggy bread, followed down by a swig of light brown ale that Thom might be taken away from him. Joining the Wardens doesn’t seem like such a good idea if you’re coerced into it.

No One wonders just what exactly he would do if Thom wasn’t around anymore. He’d been in the same place for months now, he’s learnt to call Thom a friend even if he wanted something else from the man, and that is more than he has had in years. Whether he wants to admit it or not, he had started placing down his roots in this mountaintop fortress.

He abandons his food and steps out into the afternoon hail. It’s a light storm that’s passing through, and the only way he knows it is hail is from how it had gently tapped across the windows of the tavern. As if it had been asking for refuge from the cold winds that blew outside. Soldiers and guardsmen are few and far between, only those on their duties are outside, all the rest are warming themselves inside by the fire.

He makes his way back to his own home, still standing for the wooden beams and slats that Thom had helped him to put up. The memory brings a smile to his lips, and he simply stares at the fabric rippling in the wind. It is the first home he’d had in years.

Loneliness prickles in his belly like nettles and thorns, Thom had said five weeks, but void if that wasn’t beginning to feel like a lifetime. No One thought back to when he had left, it should only be two weeks or so until he returns. He leans out on the ramparts, looking out at the mountains that surround Skyhold; it’d be a better view if he could see Thom’s party returning early. No One scrubs at his face in embarrassment; he’s like a mooning waif waiting for her lover to come home. Except Thom _isn’t_ his lover. But that singular fact hadn’t stopped him from abandoning everyone else’s beds; celibate for a man who wasn’t even his.

When he pulls himself away from the empty landscape and back into his tiny home he busies himself by preparing the lyrium for his teeth. There’s a loose stone that must have fallen when the corner of the ramparts had taken their damage, and No One had wiggled it out on the nights where reading hadn’t appealed to him. Behind it he hides a small wooden box with lyrium and a syringe; it was intended to inject the substance into the veins, but it also let No One apply it to the iron sculpture with ease. Lining the caps which encased his teeth with a practised precision, knowing just how much to fill the little divots so it wouldn’t spill out and burn into his tongue.

There’s blood on iron when he pulls the guard from his mouth, and he pokes at the scab at the back of his jaw with a probing tongue. Whoever made these teeth had done a good enough job to mould them to his mouth, a bit too much of a good job. The things were as tight as ever, and he’s not inclined to ask a metal-smith to look them over. All those years ago all he had was a letter stitched into his hand, and he tore at it until the stitches came loose and threw it before he ran away. He knows now he should have kept it, even if the words were burned into his mind.

Lyrium is spread across the iron, after he had wiped them down with a spirit soaked rag, and forced back around his teeth. No One grunts through the bite and sting of the blue liquid, muffling his sounds in the mass of pillows he still keeps. Sleep takes him easily enough, the lyrium exhausting him, or luring him into the fade, he doesn’t know the difference.

It’s the same dream as always, running through the swamp-like forest, blisters on his feet, chevaliers on his heels. The wolf, that great hulking beast, he bears the scars from its claws across the back of his thighs. He had wished for death then, hoping the animal would tear out his throat and end it all, but it had left him fevered and sick, and ultimately alive.

Thom had been right about his boots; a hole right at the back of his heel had opened up and spilled the sea inside of itself. It was a pity, because his socks had holes in too, so his feet were drowning in their own safety. Every time they stopped Thom stripped off his feet, dried them, and put dry socks in damp boots. The Inquisitor was kind enough to gift him his spare pair, two sizes too big but Thom could ball up some cloth and wedge it inside to make it easier to walk in them.

They rode on horseback often enough, but when the weather got too foul Twyla ordered them off. Varric had complained about it, him being the shortest of the group with the longest to walk, but had stopped picking at the subject when he saw how relieved Goddard was. It made sense after what they had just learned. Their Inquisitor had fallen from his horse in almost perfect weather; it would make sense that he was a little afraid of repeating himself.

Thom thought back to the time when he’d almost foolishly run the man down. There wasn’t any fear in him then, or perhaps there was, maybe he’d been too angry to look for it in the older man’s face. Maker but he had reason for it.

Varric’s staring at him with a frown, both of them heading up the back of the group, and he shrugs at Thom’s raised brow. There’s a silent conversation that passes between them, and Thom ends up waving him off. It’s better not to dwell on the past, even if he was thinking about Sera, who he hadn’t seen in months. He fingers the small stone in his pocket absentmindedly, hoping, almost praying, that she still remains safe and well.

A small fishing hold on the shores of Lake Calenhad gives them shelter for the night, as the snow starts falling a bit too wet for anyone’s liking. It gives Thom the time to properly dry out his socks, and to give his feet the once-over for any lingering dampness.

The fisherman’s daughter, with hair lighter than her skin, and eyes even lighter than that, offers to help Thom darn his socks. She hands him the darning egg with a sly smile on her face and a suggesting flick of the wrist. As the night goes on Thom feels the ever-growing presence of eyes burning holes through his armour and down to his bones. He makes sure he’s not the first to bed, nor the last, and settles down to sleep between Solas and Twyla. She has the gall to laugh at him tomorrow; cowering behind a noblewoman and a bald elf from one of the prettiest fisherwomen she’s seen.

Varric’s there with that same expression the next day. The snow has turned to slush and all of Thom’s socks are sewn to perfection. Any other time, Thom reassures himself, he’d have slipped into her bed and kissed her all over. Even Twyla throws him a questioning look as they travel, Goddard had been whispering in her ear as they walked. He’s not exactly sure what had been said between the two but it’s something to do with No One, that much is obvious to him.

 “I’ll get him some bloody dice.” Thom grunts and spurs his horse ahead. Nothing but wide-open fields in the valleys between hills. There’s a few moments where they fall in line, weapons at the ready, Varric and the Inquisitor leading the group. Solas and Fulton as the centre pair with Thom and Twyla taking the back. It’s a strong formation, Varric’s keen eye for hidden archers, Goddard’s quick reflexes for defence, Twyla and Thom both had the power to carve them out a retreat if they needed it. Solas at the centre of the group knew where all of them were for barriers, and Fulton soon figured out he was the weakest of the group, surrounded by others who would protect him.

A group of bandits do try their luck on the group, an arrow carves over Thom’s shoulder plate before the thieves run out from behind trees and rocks. The group is taken down, those that survive run off and Goddard orders Varric to let them go, they’re practically children when he takes off the leather helmets to look at them. They use one of the bandit’s hidden caravans to build them a pyre, Goddard offers the Andrastian words of funeral rights, and the group take off once more.

Thom thinks they’re about a dozen days away from Skyhold when a merchant’s caravan gives them the news. The woman, who sells trinkets and games, tells them about the Grey Warden who passed her on his way up. She offered him shelter for the night but he refused it.

“Three of those big war hounds, all painted up and the like, my lover.” She grins at the Thom. “Two horses too, but he wasn’t riding none of them.” She has a strong accent, thick and Fereldan, common amongst farmhands and the like.

“Is he expecting other riders?” Thom pulled out two sets of dice and rolled them between his fingers. Some of them were carved, others were painted, most came in little wooden boxes but some came in small dyed silk bags.  

“Aye, I asked him if he were up to some recruiting and the like-” she scrunched up her nose and pouted “he said I wouldn’t make the cut like, but I wasn’t meaning me.” She said, raising her shoulders and letting them fall again.

“Do you have any stone dice?” Thom huffed, disappointed in the selection. If they had stopped at Redcliffe he could have shopped for something nicer, something more specific, something with a little bit more thought inside.

“Of course, love.” She roots through a box and plucks a few out. None quite remind him of the stones No One had carved for him. He buys a set for a few coppers, grey stone, with small carved square spirals for numbers. It makes him feel giddy when he secures them in his coat, often finding his fingers wandering down to check they’re still there.

“Are you safe travelling through here?” Thom asks when she tugs the reigns for the horse to move.

“Aye, my lover. I’ve a crossbow at my hip; anything that comes near me will have a bolt between the eyes before it can even see me.”

It’s Wintermarch next month; it’ll be his nameday one out of the thirty days. Thom fools himself into thinking it’s a nameday gift, when deep down it feels like a courting gift. It keeps him distracted as all six make their way up the mountain path. The Grey Warden Commander is here, the Hero of Ferelden, arguably one of the most powerful men in Thedas who has the ability to simply steal Thom away from Skyhold. Safety, he thinks with the small stone in his palm, it’s safety.

The extent of safety eludes him as he lets his horse walk him to the mountain fortress. Both Solas and Lei had told him its value was little to nothing, but No One had believed in it, in the chalk dusting it left in its wake, in the simple idea of a placebo charm. It made Thom want to believe in it all as well. No matter where the idea originated from, whether it was from strange fade dreams or from demon worshipping blood mages, it was something kind and heartfelt from No One. Something from someone Thom had truly started to care deeply for.

“Can’t sleep either?” Twyla whispers when she sets herself down beside Thom. She knew it was her father’s turn to go on watch, but he was old, and had a surprising knack for falling asleep wherever and whenever he could.

“No, My Lady, and meaning no offense, your father looks like he could use the hours. What’s troubling you?” He offers her a smile when he looks up from the small horse head he’s been whittling down from a thicker branch.

“Quite forward for a soldier,” She laughs, waving Thom’s apology away, she hadn’t meant it seriously, “A month ago we set out, and I rode back to Skyhold so hard I could barely feel my thighs, all in complete fear.” She inches closer and lowers her voice so that she won’t wake the others. “In a few days time we’ll camp in the same spot where I thought I was going to lose my last brother, my father, and my own life, to an _animal_.”

“I’ve sworn my life to this cause; if that bastard wants to cut someone down I’ll be first in line to stop it.” Thom says, his voice steady and stern, and Twyla believes him.

“I wouldn’t ask you to.” She pats his hand and sits back. “That beast was-” she pauses, and scratches her jaw, “-it wasn’t a loser. Scars like that, it knows how to fight, and we know it’s smart, and that’s what frightens me most.”

“Scars don’t make a beast victorious.” Thom offers, he hasn’t yet seen it, he hasn’t ever seen a werewolf. Demons and such were different, monstrous forms, Fade made flesh. But wolves as big as people had said? It was the spider debate that often rang across Thedas. You can see the big ones, but they’re strong bastards, you can crush the little ones with a thumb, but they can hide so well. Both of them carry enough venom to kill a man regardless.

“No, but they make it a survivor, and it means there’s something out there that’s willing to fight with it.” She rubs her own shoulders as if she’s cold and hangs her head. “I’ve sat on enough of the war councils to know this Magister, this Corpypheus, he’s got something elven in his grasp, and do you know what the elves fear?”

“The same things as any other man, more because of us.”

“The Dread Wolf.” Twyla states. “What if this wolf isn’t mindless, what if it’s Corypheus’? It comes to us with teeth like daggers of blood on iron, lunar-like eyes, fur and skin like unblemished snow hiding deep war trenches-”

“Twyla.” Goddard scolds from the other side of their small camp. “Both of you, go to sleep.” He rises from his bedroll and cracks his bones before shooing them both to their own beds. Trevelyan might be able to fall asleep where and when he wants, but he’s much better at waking up.

Thom tries not to hold judgement over Twyla’s words. It seemed so very far-fetched to think that Corypheus could hold power over a Dalish God, especially when the Magister made so many claims to Godhood himself. But with the way the world is now, he thinks, is there any reason that people can dismiss something so easily because it’s so unusual.

He rolls onto his back and plucks the stone from his pocket and holds it up to the full moon. This will keep him safe if he ever stands toe to toe with that beast; and it will keep him safe when he takes that bastard down.

No One stands at the mouth of the dawnstone cavern, aching from last night’s exertions, and watches the snow fall over the animal tracks he made. He presses his barefoot beside it neatly and pulls away to see the imprint, frowning at the difference in size. The depth had faded, but it was still larger and wider than his own, and he had rarely taken the time before to look at his bestial form. The few hours between the cavern and Skyhold are a less eventful walk than it had been the time before last.

His bones still ache, but with the amount of food he has eaten in the last few months, chewing his way through Thom’s money, he’d started to recover better. But with every meal he still left the last bite, the sweetest mouthful, for another to take. He drinks in the tavern when he returns, and strings enough words together to make Cabot think he has apologised to him.

No One buys Bull a drink, albeit on Thom’s tab, as a thank you for cleaning up the room. He hopes for that to be the end of it, and groans when he sees the grey hand fall down beside him.

“A drink isn’t enough?” He grunts, he still doesn’t like the Qunari, and from what he can gather the man doesn’t seem to get the meaning. No One has never quite been fond of false niceties anyhow.

“On Thom’s coin?” Bull laughs, he orders another pair of drinks for them both, and wedges himself on a bar stool. He’s twice as wide as No One, and he’s thankful for the head above he has in height. Bull’s horns are obtusely large. The smell of days old vomit obviously wasn’t enough to deter the Qunari like it had been any others who had merely been in the general area of him.

“It was his room.”

“It was your mess.” Bull taps their cups together in cheers. “Say, I’ve been meaning to ask you, that coin purse you had when we first met, and what you gambled with the other night. Who pays like that?”

“Looking for a job?” No One drains his tankard heavily and takes the one Bull had brought for him.

“No, just looking out for the competition, I don’t want my boys running off and working for someone else.”

“Are they that disloyal?”

“Money can buy a lot of things, but I like to think they would stick by me.” Bull waits patiently for an answer, enduring the awkward air that threatens to suffocate them both.

“I don’t think you’re their type.” No One offers, hoping the man will go away. When the Qunari remains sitting with an inoffensive smile on his face, No One gets up, drains his tankard and leaves instead. He’s not talking about the Piss Merchant in here, he’s not talking about the Piss Merchant with anyone but the Family. That’s loyalty, no matter how misguided and under whatever pretentions, that is his loyalty.

Bull doesn’t follow him, a small blessing when he makes his way up to the ramparts. He stares for a while, remembering how Viola had overwhelmed him here so easily.

“Loyalty.” He whispers to himself. What kind of loyalty is made under the threat of death? What kind of loyalty is reaped from a seed so coerced? No One hadn’t had a choice when the Piss Merchant had found him, or rather he had the choice of death or servitude, and he thinks he chose well.

No One slips into the corner tower, the doors aren’t locked, and he leaves it open behind him with a familiar fear creeping up his spine. His old chains are gathering wet dust wedged up in the crease of the wall. Memories swirl around the links, every section made for a separate time in a separate prison, he squats and fingers through the cleanest section. Val Royeaux, with Thom. That’s a memory worth keeping.

“You shouldn’t be-” No One whips around with his dagger unsheathed and arm outstretched at the intrusive voice.

“Caldwell.” He breathes, sliding the stolen dagger back into its place. The man he had been trying to catch for the past fortnight or more, to ask him about the Dalish words that had spilt from his lips, and right now he doesn’t even want him to be here. It feels disloyal and he’s not sure what kind of loyalty he has towards whatever Dalish had influenced him.

“I keep finding you where you shouldn’t be.” He laughs nervously and fiddles with the strap on his satchel. Caldwell can’t say he’s been at the wrong end of a dagger too many times, but having your own pulled on you is remarkably strange.

“This off limits?” He asked, gesturing loosely with a flick of his wrist.

“No.” He pauses and chews his bottom lip. “Where’d you learn to fight?”

“A man named Geoffroy taught me things here and there.”

“Can you teach me?” Caldwell said, stepping closer with an eagerness on his lips. No One snorts out his laughter and coughs it out when he sees how red the elf’s face has turned.

“No.” He picks at the skin around his thumbnail and pats Caldwell’s shoulder as he passes him. “You’re surrounded by soldiers, ask one of them.” The elf yanks away from him and curls his hands into fists, nobody had ever bothered to try to teach him how to fight. They had all called him useless, he’d never be a hunter like the others, he couldn’t craft, and he wasn’t a mage. Little Geldwyl, he had taken the closest human variant of his name, and reinvented himself as a runner.

He doesn’t think on his actions, maybe Caldwell doesn’t have to be as useless as Geldwyl any longer, and throws his fist into No One’s back, forcing the man to bend and stumble forward. He huffs out his disbelief and rubs the bruise that threatens to spill from his spine. No One hadn’t expected it, but he feels the familiar fighting sense spill across his body.

Caldwell swings again, expecting the man to dodge out of the way when he aims for his jaw, and yelps when his knuckles smack across his cheekbone and send him staggering into the doorframe. It’s not a strong punch by any means, but it splits Caldwell’s knuckles like rotten peaches. No One’s lip is blood on iron where his teeth had bitten through.

“Ask one of the soldiers,” he says and wipes the red from his chin. “and get to a healer with those bruises.”

“I’m sorry, I thought you would fight back and-”

“Don’t be.” No One waves him off and walks back to his own home. “I deserve it.” He mouths silently to himself.


	21. First Day

First Day passes through the fortress with soldiers drinking with their brothers in arms as if they were family. Their Commander had shown up in the tavern for an honorary drink with some of the troops, and No One had sat at the bar and toasted to the Baroulxs. A whispered _à votre santé_ fell from his lips only once, almost breathlessly and practically silent under the crowd’s celebrations.

Several games of _Drink for the Year_ had been played. Nine shots of Dalish spirits for the age, four cups of whiskey for the decades, and three pints of ale for the singular years. Drinking them all is supposed to give you good fortune, but it’s a year of bad luck if you stop or vomit before finishing.

Somebody had pledged a toast to the Inquisitor and all the bastard sons he may have had. Most of the patrons had laughed with him, a few thought it a touch too distasteful. It didn’t stop half of the men in the room announcing they were a Trevelyan bastard, one man clambered atop a table and gave a thrilling account of his own mother getting shagged by the Herald of Andraste. No One laughs along with them, it’s hard not to. But there’s a limit to how much he can sit there and endure.

The drunkard howls out part of the Chant of Light for an orgasm, legs shaking, arms quivering and spilling his drink as he danced for his crowd. It’s sacrilege, and it burns in No One’s gut like unholy fire. He downs his drink as the Chant slips from the lungs of the other man, swallowing with a bite and dropping his mug to the floor. No One crosses the room, pushing passed the group of people, and grabs the drunkard’s ankle.

“Don’t you think you’ve had enough?” He hisses, squeezing the leather of the man’s boot.

“Eh? Who in all of Andraste’s cunt are you?” He spits.

“I’m the man who’s cock you’ll be sucking through bloodied gums if you don’t stop talking.” No One pauses and waits for the threat to sink through the ale and continues, “Tell your tales, but you say one more fucking word of the Chant of Light and I’ll-”

It’s an elbow, he thinks, that hits him first. It comes from the left of him and forces him to chew through the already swollen part of his lip. The edge of the table bites at his gut, and then there’s a boot in his shoulder pushing him off.

No One tries to take the hits where he knows it won’t cause too much damage, he tenses up his belly when someone is hammering him there. He attempts to take any hits across his thighs instead off his knees, and keeps his head guarded as best he can. They’re all thrown out, No One is legless from having his knee kicked a couple of times, and struggles to stand without someone pulling him up. His face is wet with blood matting his hair to his skin, there are scrapes across his arms and shoulders, and bruises flowering almost everywhere.

“Idiot, picking fights you can’t win.” A woman grabs him and hauls him to his feet.

“Who says I wanted to win?” He laughs. His nose hurts when he talks, it’s probably broken, and he watches the blood fall into the snow as he’s lifted up.

“Oh, aye, that _is_ Thom’s friend.” the Stark says. He feels fingers gently taking his jaw in hand, and he can’t see properly for how blurry it’s becoming. “I’ve seen them in the stables together.”

“We should take him to the healers.”

“No,” No One hisses and untangles himself from the woman. She’s large, tall, with curling horns and short hair. “I can walk.” He bows sloppily and staggers down to the lower courtyard. Two sets of footsteps follow him, the Qunari and the Starkhaven lad, No One wishes they wouldn’t but they watch him clamber up the slope to the ramparts and watch him pass into his own tent.

Worried whispers travel behind the cloth doors until they leave. It’s nice to be concerned about, he thinks, cared about even. He feels guilt drip across his chest, would he have acted like this if Thom was here with him? Taunting Caldwell into hitting him, picking fights with large drunken soldiers, that’s the kind of act he used to pull years ago. He knows if he had pulled either of his helpers into bed it would have been a mimic of a hundred other nights.

Thom will return in a few days, and No One knows he’ll still wear purpled split skin. It’s not guilt that slips into his lungs like festering cobwebs, but shame.

He sneaks into the public bathhouse the next sunrise, aching and covered in dried blood. He takes a fresh set of clothes with him, knowing that the thought of Thom seeing him like this is too embarrassing even for a man with little to no dignity. No One uses Thom’s soap to wash himself. A clean and simple scent he’s growing extremely fond of, and watches the little flecks of blood float away in the public water. He spends too much time getting through his routine, and soldiers and guards start to filter in. They stare at him for as long as is acceptable in a public bathhouse before turning away with questions on their tongues.

People will speak about what had happened in the tavern last night, and No One will embrace it as he always does. It’s charming in a way, something he used to enjoy thoroughly. So long as the people who had beaten him remained alive there wasn’t anything to worry about.

No One struggles to pull himself from the bath, and grunts at the ache in his shoulder and his knee when it proves too much. He curses himself under his breath. Chevalier training apparently went to shit when you were too old to even wash yourself. A round bellied man helps him out, looks away when No One’s waist appears from beneath the water. An attempt is made at least, it’s hard to look away from pockmarked skin and rivets that ran muscle deep across his legs.

“Andraste’s tits, man.” He gasped. No One laughed at him, scratchy and raw from all the yelling. “Apologies, but I’ve never seen anything quite like those, not on a living man.”

“I’m a devout bastard.” No One nods. “ _At this, his wounds healed, and he stood and gathered up the ashes._ ” He quoted. It’s not the best quote for the occasion, but it’s the one that first comes to mind.

“I’m not, Brother, but if you need any help just shout for me. My name’s Picard.” He pats No One’s shoulder gently and moves to dip into the water himself. It’s awkward dressing as he does, but he manages it, and he manages to get himself to the tavern in one piece. Cabot still doesn’t like his patronage, but Thom always comes good on his debts.

Thom’s nerves are on set ablaze as they approach the gates of Skyhold. He hadn’t managed to get more than a couple of hours sleep the last night, with vines twisting in his belly, half afraid he’ll be greeted by a man in blue, half afraid he won’t be greeted at all. Shaking fingers find the dice in his pocket, the small satchel they’re tied in has pale dust lingering on the outside from the stone that Thom had been playing with for the last few hours. He finds it hard not to laugh at himself, acting like a new bride at his age.

Commander Cullen is at the gates, Moss and his children too. He can’t see any of those who had seen Varric or Solas off, and his heart sinks when he can’t find that familiar blonde hair.

Each hoofbeat drills into his chest, he hopes that as more of Skyhold’s lower courtyard comes into view maybe he’ll see that halo of blonde from darkened roots. But with every step nothing more becomes visible, and he can’t hide his disappointment under grime and his beard. They had spoken about it before, but Thom had thought that times had changed now, that maybe he was worth waiting at the gates for.

He sulks for the last few minutes of the ride, up until he sees the man he’s been waiting for, juggling a peach one-handed with a grin stretched wide across his face. It takes most of his self-control to stop himself from urging his horse forward to meet the man sooner.

Five weeks he had said, and five weeks it had been. Thom had spent most of that time thinking about the blonde, if it would be worth it to kiss him. He wants to, as the thought is like a hot meal after a week of blizzard, something warm in his gut and delicate in his mouth. He hadn’t truly thought of anything that would come after, if anything ever would. No One had come to him in dreams, drinking at the tavern mostly. Thom would sit beside him and they would share a drink and a peach and he would awaken in the marshlands of the Fallow Mire thankful that he wasn’t a young lad anymore. Waking up with his cock would have been awkward even if he wasn’t sharing a tent with the son of the Herald of Andraste.

The sight of No One’s face curdles as he gets closer, half of his face is mottled with bruises, his lower lip is swollen to one side, and the wall he’s leaning against seems to be most of what is holding him up. Thom does kick his horse into a slight gallop, slowing down when he’s closer to the gates and he’s forced to navigate through the wandering crowd.

“Safe journey?” No One grins with his peach raised to his chest in a mock salute to the returning soldier.

“What happened to you?” Thom said, climbing down from his horse. He holds the reigns in one hand and reaches to cup No One’s cheek with the other, wary of the purpled skin.

“First Day celebrations got a bit out of hand.” He pushes into Thom’s hand carefully, more afraid of it retracting that agitating any of his wounds.

“With who?”

“A few workers, it’s nothing, Thom.” He laughs earnestly at the caring touch, something that feels so foreign to him. “You told me to keep a dagger about me.” Thom’s eyes widen at the implication before No One waves it off. He hadn’t even pulled the dagger from the sheath in the tavern, he tells Thom as much, and he’d done a good job of keeping the others fighting him from pulling it too.

No One roughly splits the peach in half with a twist of his hands, he takes the smaller half for himself and gifts the other to Thom. He has to take the smaller of Thom’s saddle bags for the limp he’s retained from a bruised knee, but the other man doesn’t seem to mind. He’s much happier now he is back at home, and they spare a moment when Thom’s things are safely back in his room to embrace one another. It’s awkward at first. Neither man used to anything like it, but it’s a comfort that lasts a bit too long for it to be platonic. Coming home after a long journey like that, Thom was allowed a few indulgences.

He explains about the clothes he had brought for Thom, but doesn’t tell him about any of his other ventures in the room. That blasted Qunari might but that’s out of his command.

Thom doesn’t feel any different on his thoughts about kissing the other man. Maker he still wants to, but all of his excitement has filtered into nervousness. Knowing that the man is sitting on his bed nursing half a dozen injuries, and the threat of kissing him is very real.

It’s a slight of the hand taking the dice from his pocket and hiding them in the draws of his shaving cabinet. He makes a more obvious show of placing the stone with the others, a quick glance back at No One to catch the end of his smile. His coat is thrown into a washer’s basket, along with all the layers upon his torso and his socks. They all smell like the Fallow Mire; no amount of fresh air had managed to dull it either.

“Do you want me to go?” No One asks, twirling his thumbs around one another. “If you want to bathe I mean, I can go for a few ales if you need to rest.”

“Is that safe for you?” Thom said. He’s half naked, in just his breeches, and there’s an obvious line where his clothes have stopped the grime from getting at his skin.

“Worried about me? I-”

“Yes.” Thom states before the man can finish the sentence he had spoken twice before. Their gazes lock, and No One bites his tongue until he looks away. It was too intense of a stare, something else that resided underneath, something that No One didn’t deserve, to have someone look at him in such a way. “I owe you a drink, remember?”

“Bastard’s honour?” He grins.

“Bastard’s honour.” Thom repeats with laughter from his chest. He grabs a set of clothes from the pile that No One had bought for him, impressed by how it felt between his fingers, like snow and silk, leather and honey. He watches how No One crawls under the covers after shedding the druffalo wool blanket he always wore, and curls up on the bed. Thom chews his lip to stem his smile, the whole scene is far too domestic for them both. But Maker, what Thom wouldn’t give to see it happen again.

Goddard avoids seeing his wife, telling Twyla that he will speak to her as soon as he has finished up some urgent business. Still wearing bog-smelling leather he climbs the stairs of the library, a quick hello to Dorian who congratulates him on a safe journey, and straight to Leliana’s crook.

She’s there reading through reports with a keen eye, and bows when Goddard comes to sit at the other side of her desk.

“The guards found this in Redcliffe.” He said straight to the point, and pulls out a golden scribed card. “Stuffed into the tongue-less mouth of the last remaining Carter family member.”

“They were targeted, as we suspected.”

“Indeed. This Viola, whoever she is, must control this beast.” He scratched his jaw and sagged in his seat. “A beast we have rarely seen, who has not been trackable to date, and works under a woman who disembowels men and rips out their tongues.”

“And she has been in Skyhold.”

“What?” Goddard states. He leans back in disbelief, he hadn’t heard anything of the sort. If there had been an assassin in Skyhold, even down in the Fallow Mire he would have heard. A string of fear dangles down his throat, had Viola attacked his family? He should have seen to Yetta as soon as he crossed those iron gates.

“When the man claiming to be Luin Saile was held in that tower for four days, we searched it when Serah Lane confessed to what she had done.” Leliana fingered through her reports until she found the one she wanted, “There was little in there, a pile of chains that he wore, and this card.” She places it down carefully, next to the one Goddard had brought to her. They were identical save for the bloodstains. They both figured it out quickly, it was a calling card, something to signify that Viola had done this.

“By the Maker, and ‘claiming’?” Goddard quoted.

“He is _not_ Luin Saile. The real Luin Saile is currently in a Nevarran prison, three months for fraud.” Leliana paused while Goddard rubbed at his face, this was more stress added onto an ever-growing pile of problems. “May I ask about the soldier?”

“He is my son.” Goddard said. There is no doubt in his voice, no shame nor fear. He’ll have to commission a jeweller to make a Trevelyan’s crest for the man to wear, to grant him all the bonuses that came with his name. It will upset Fulton undoubtedly, and he fears that he may force him to choose, and that is something that Goddard will not do.

He wonders for a moment if he is turning into his father, forced to choose between two valuable things; his lover or his family. Goddard had chosen quickly. Mounting his stallion and riding for Ferelden to join the Orlesian military, opposing his father’s wishes of joining the Templar Order. It had worked in his favour. He had never found Florent, but he had a distinguished military career, a beautiful wife, and had been announced as Bann Trevelyan a few years previous.

“Perhaps you should ask him about Luin.” Leliana takes both cards and slips them into her reports, she’ll have them examined more closely later. Finding this Viola is vital.

“Under what pretences?”

“Serah Mi’Durgen spent a year in a Fereldan prison, fraudulent behaviour. He made quite the fantastic dancing bear apparently.”

“He’s a _mage_?” He said. Goddard couldn’t quite believe it, the Trevelyans had spent generations out-breeding magic, to the point where his own grandparents had been first-cousins for the lack of a better option at the time. His closest magical relation, before finding out about Lei, was a distant relative whose mother held a minor amount of their fortune. Goddard had to dig deep into his memory to remember his name, Hugh Ellendar, born of Gilbert Ellendar and Marianne Trevelyan.

“We believe so, Luin managed to prove it was another man who transformed Lei and transformed him back. Your son was spared the Circle, but took all the punishment that was intended for Luin.”

“Dare I ask about Florent?”

“Ser Florent Baroulx hasn’t been seen in decades-”

“Maker.” Goddard cursed.

“-and I have written to his brother Maxime, he is journeying to Skyhold as we speak. He wants this to be as quiet as possible, his daughter is currently one of the women vying for Emperor Gaspard’s hand in marriage, anything negative-”

“Will sully her chances, yes.”

“I am sorry, Inquisitor.”

“Don’t be, perhaps this is my punishment for claiming to be Andraste’s chosen.”

“Divine Justinia chose you, some would say that is the same, that Andraste chose you through her spirit.”

“A remarkable way with words, Sister Nightingale.” Goddard hummed, “I need to see my wife, anything else for me can wait the night. If you could, pen a letter to King Alistair and Queen Anora?” Leliana gives him a quick nod, “The Carters were killed in Redcliffe, and some Fereldan Banns have met their end with this beast. They deserve to know that we’re dealing with it before they send their own soldiers to sort it out.” He sighs and stands, ignoring the way his knees pop and how much he needs to bathe. “If you think it wise, tell them about the Warden Commander, he and King Alistair never were on the best of terms, were they?”

“Not according to the rumours.”

“I don’t want them to think we’re excluding them at any rate.” He gives Leliana a nod before he disappears down the spiralling staircase. More visitors, he groans internally, if only things weren’t so complex.

Thom had bought No One his drink, a bottle of wine, both wedged into a corner of the tavern with two bowls between them. One empty, the other with a spoonful of stew and a chunk of druffalo left inside. They grinned as they spoke together, leaning in closer but still bellowing out their laughter.

No One finds out about the journey to and from the Fallow Mire, how Thom had danced with the prospect of trench foot from bog water. In turn, he tells him about what little has happened in the fortress, and any rumours that have been spreading around. He explains what had caused the fight he had been in, and Thom listens earnestly.

“I wanted to be a Brother when I was younger.”

“You!” Thom laughs and swallows his wine with an unquenchable smile on his lips. He has to wipe away the wine he had spat out with the back of his glove, but it goes unnoticed.

“Yes _me_ , bastard, I remember every verse of that sacred Chant. I sing it well too.”

“Horseshit.”

“ _Horseshit_ , horseshit.” He kicks Thom under the table and only then realises how close their legs had been underneath.

“Alright, sing me a part of it.”

“Now? I wouldn’t want to throw the bard off her tune.”

“Coward.” Thom grunts into his drink, jumping at the bare heel catching him in his leg again.

Knowing that No One is Andrastian eases the confusion and rumour-fuelled fear in his gut. The rocks that had little reason weren’t Dalish to him, only a form of odd safety, and men all across Thedas had their vices. Some had a lucky copper, others kept a lock of hair from their children, and some kept a token from their lovers. No One liked to carve rocks. It’s strange, but it works. Thom had made sure to keep that small rock with him for the entire journey, and it had eased his mind several times over.

As the night goes on both men only seem to shuffle closer to one another. Their knees touch and neither moves away, No One is bent over laughing so hard he clutches at Thom’s sleeve until he can catch his breath. It’s mesmerising for both of them, as if the rest of the tavern has simply melted away.

In the rush of their closeness they ignore the sound of the heavy door swinging open, and they’re too far away to feel the rush of cold air swim across the floorboards. The gentle snuffling of dogs and how the voices die out is enough to pull them from one another. Three dogs, Thom counts, three mabaris to be precise, all snuffling after one man in blue clothing and shining silverlite under a dusting of snow. He says nothing to anybody as he passes through, leaving puddles in his wake as he journeys to the second floor. He walks the length of it, loyal mabaris on his heels, and slips into Sera’s old room.

Thom’s gut drops into a pit of nerves, even No One picks up at how he sinks back into himself. The décor of the small room made sense. All that blue had made him assume it was an Orlesian who meant to stay there, but the blue wasn’t royal, and any self-respecting noble who could force the Inquisitor to redecorate was hardly likely to sleep in a tavern. The Grey Warden Commander, though how he arrived after the Inquisitor when they had been told he was much closer to the fortress than them he does not know.

No One pulls them both out of the tavern after a few hours, his arm wrapped around Thom’s shoulders as they hobbled across the courtyard. They’re both drunk to a certain degree, talking with lowered voices to one another, laughing under their breaths like children. They wobble in their footsteps, but balance each other as they walk up to the ramparts.

“I’ve great admiration for you, No One.” Thom whispers, stopping to press their foreheads together with a grip at the back of his neck. They’re close enough to kiss, he realises with a prickle up his spine, so close he can practically taste the iron on his teeth and the lyrium across his gums. Maker he wants to kiss him, it would be so easy to lean in and take his lips.

Thom can imagine it. Wine scented breath, his tongue would taste like the meat stew, his lips would be cold from the chill in the air. Lyrium would sing in his mouth, the tang of iron would leak onto his tongue, and the noise, oh he would drink his moans as if he were the embodiment of thirst.

“You haven’t even heard me sing yet.” He laughs, turning the subject matter away from any seriousness that Thom had intended. He doesn’t deserve to be admired, not by Thom. But it’s a thrilling compliment that brings a fresh pink to his cheeks.

“I’d like to.” Thom mumbles. No One pulls back for a moment, and clears his throat. He hums it softly, thinking though the verses, he hasn’t sung in years.

The Canticle of Exaltations is one of the simplest to sing; with long verses and short lines. The Chant doesn’t rhyme as often- as a song should, but the notes give an allusion to something of the sort with its repetitive tune. No One won’t sing the whole thing, it’s not that he couldn’t, but he doesn’t want to bore Thom with the holy albeit old verses.

He can remember singing it as a boy, when they visited the chantry in Val Royeaux. No One was always eager to be up in the choir. If he wasn’t singing he was training with sword and shield, and sometimes even when he sparred the chant would fall breathlessly from his lips. It was a distraction they soon demolished in the Academie des Chevaliers, but he kept the rhythm in his head and in his steps. He was a better fighter for it.

No One lets his voice fade out on the final word, and steps away from the other man to offer him a mock bow. Thom thinks it’s incredible. His voice echoes down into his chest, it makes his skin prickle and his throat swell. He had never thought much about the tone of No One’s voice, his accent flowed from one to another frequently, when he drank too much it became scratched and raw, when he whispered it was like spirits from the Fade tasting the edges of his ears, and when he laughed it was if the clouds parted and thunder rang brightly across clear skies.

“Maker’s balls.” He breathes. “You’d have made a bloody good choir boy.”

“Never really fancied the castration.” No One laughs and slips his arm back around Thom’s shoulders so they may continue their walk.

“They don’t really do that, do they?”

“Never really found out.” He shrugged. “Didn’t have the chance to.” Thom gives him a raised eyebrow and bumps the side of their hips together as they walk. “I was a soldier at fifteen; wasn’t poor enough to be sold to the chantry, wasn’t the youngest so I couldn’t be forced in.”

“You have siblings?”

“I’m the eldest with two brothers and a sister.” No One waggles three fingers in front of Thom’s face. “Do you?”

“I had a sister; Liddy.” Thom says.

“I can’t tell you their names.” He whispers. He takes the other man’s hand in his own and squeezes it gently, he wants to apologise for his sister, but he’s never quite been able to find the words to say sorry. He can’t imagine losing a sibling like that. True, he may not have seen his own siblings in over a decade, but they were still alive, and there was a chance he would meet them at some point.

“I know.” Thom carries on walking, keeping No One’s hand in his own. Nobody can see them up here on the ramparts, surrounded by mountains and frost. For a fortress filled with soldiers, workers, pilgrims, and holy icons, it can sometimes truly feel like you’re all alone.

They keep their hands gripped together as No One makes his path across the broken rubble, he’s halfway when both of their arms are stretching to keep their link. He turns back with his lips upturned, and doesn’t make any effort to break their connection. Thom wants to offer the man his room, his bed, his mouth, his body. Maker preserve him, he hasn’t thought about anything after a kiss, but arousal flares in his gut when he does.

“My door is open, if you need me.” Thom whispers, and No One nods ever so slightly, trying not to think of the implications. He wiggles his fingers free from the other man’s and steps onto a more stable part of the stone.

“Thank you, Thom, sleep well.” He bows, properly, nobly, and slips into his home. Thom walks slowly back to his own room, with each step he is further from No One, yet he clouds his mind like never before.

His bedsheets smell like soap and peaches when he returns to his personal chamber. Thom imagines it slowly, undressing No One, trailing his fingers down scars, across skin rippled by bone. The feel of his bristled moustache against his own, threading his fingers through brittle hair, kissing across his chest and feeling prickles on his tongue. He hasn’t seen him naked, he has to fake what No One’s legs look like. Knobbly knees, bowed thighs, muscles like taught bowstring with skin stretched tightly across them. Would he have scars across his legs? Would the hair be sparse or thick? His voice, Maker his voice, No One would sing for him so magnificently.

Thom strips from his clothes and takes himself in hand, moaning unabashedly into the night. He comes with No One on his lips, and for all the uniqueness and strangeness the name holds, it feels holy across his tongue.


	22. Chevalier

Thom doesn’t feel the slightest bit guilty about how he had taken himself last night, nor for the images that had swam through his mind whilst he had done it. The thoughts filtered through his memory on his way to meet the man the next morning. His blush at the more intimate parts of his imagination was blamed on the chill in the mountain air.

No One is already awoken, sitting beside the fire pit with Varric’s book in hand. His bare feet, for once, look a normal shade by the fire. If he wasn’t as bruised as he was Thom thinks he would look almost regal, wrapped in his druffalo wool with a large book perched in one hand and a tumbler of whiskey in the other. He takes his time crossing the broken section of the rampart, it’s a wonder the Inquisition hasn’t gotten around to mending it yet. Though there are more important things at hand; he has to admit.

“Haven’t finished that yet?” he calls over, dropping down beside him. No One had put a ladder in to make access easier, but it was an old thing, and the wood was suffering in a constant state of freeze-thaw.

“Almost, they’ve just fought with the Dalish clan, Varric’s good at describing violence, isn’t he? A bit vague on how many die.” No One kicks a small crate for Thom to sit on.

“You could always ask him, again.”

“Hah. That would go down well, _Varric, how many elves did your famous friend kill again?_ ” He snorts and screws up his face, “I suppose I should have seen it coming, there’s a lot of aggression on his behalf for this Merrill girl.”

“He spoke to the Inquisitor about the werewolves,” Thom points out, and sits down to lean into the fire to warm himself. “He must think your opinion is well intended.”

“And?”

“He thought it was a good lead, I think he’s going to send someone to look for this Clara. I don’t think he wanted to invite the Champion back here.” Thom said. Meeting Hawke had been something else entirely, he was hardly the dark haired, clean shaven, six-foot-something man that the book represented him as. In truth, Varric had used the physical representation of the Champion’s younger brother to make him seem more heroic in his tale. Not that the dwarf would voluntarily admit that.

“Why not? This book makes him look holier than your Inquisitor, or is _that_ why?” No One dogears the page and places it carefully to one side. Another glass appears from beneath his seat, as if he had been expecting a visitor, and he pours Thom a whiskey. Varric had told him that Clara’s remedy was probably not worth chasing after, so he had dropped the lead entirely. But if the Inquisitor would investigate? No One would just have to steal the notes he made and brew himself a potion.

“Hawke likes singing bawdy tavern songs, drinking, and throwing around fancy magic. He followed Cullen for a day singing about marrying his sister, Varric could barely be in the same room as him, and his dog is a great lumbering beast that had terrified the Herald multiple times.” Thom has to laugh at the ridiculousness of it. Everyone had expected Hawke to be perfect, to be royal, to be a hero, but he looked as if he had just rolled off the latest haycart to arrive. “He was the most common noble you could ever meet, a proper Ferelden, with a thick traveller’s accent to match. Though he made a good life for himself after Kirkwall.”

“A true Dog Lord.” No One laughs with Thom when he tells him all about Hawke. What little he had learnt before the man had ridden off, back to his lover, knowing a dear friend of his had probably perished in the Fade. That bit was still unclear.

They break their fast in the tavern, and Thom keeps a steady eye watching the door to Sera’s old room. He had met Warden Blackwall in a tavern, and he wondered if that’s where Warden Recruiters spent the most of their time. Drunken men were likely to fight, and if they were good fighters when they were pissed out of their skulls, then a few darkspawn shouldn’t bother them in the slightest. There’s nothing in the Warden rule book that says you can’t fight darkspawn incredibly sloshed anyway.

Gordon Blackwall had been good to him for the little time he had known him. He had given him a second chance when he thought he hadn’t deserved it, and had inspired him to do the same. Perhaps Thom couldn’t trawl prisons and conscript men like he could, but he hoped that the few men and women he had sent to the nearest Grey Warden encampment led better lives for his interference.

The Warden Commander stepped out of his room, dressed in the traditional Grey Warden colours, and let his mabaris scamper out of the tavern to do their business. He’s tall from what Thom had seen, but he walks like No One does, his back hunched over, shoulders tucked in. Making himself smaller than he needs to. Regardless of all that, Cousland still has to tuck his head down to dodge some of the beams that Thom has to jump to meet with his own. He watches as the man walks around the second floor, makes his way down the steps, and to their table.

No One doesn’t bother sparing him a glance, he’s still chewing through the pottage and slurping down ale. Thom stands with a fist to his own chest, and the tavern falls almost silent around them.

They all know who Thom Rainier is; pretender, fraudster, liar. A man with no honour, a sell sword without dignity, a murderer. Beside him, they may not know who the tattooed Warden is, but the uniform rings loud and true like an arrow to the eye. Cousland is real, he is honourable, he is the man who fights against darkspawn and defends the people of Thedas against a threat centuries old.

Thom takes the few seconds to take a deep look at the Ferelden Grey Warden Commander Andrastopher Cousland. The tattoos are unconventional, red scrawling ink of a Chasind design. It flows under the unkempt beard and into the dark receding hair, it falls down his neck and down under his high collar. There’s age in his dark eyes, they sag at the edges and look as if they belong to a man decades older than he is. His nose is small and flat, his age-thinned lips are hidden by his facial hair, and scars lance his face like naked branches. Andrastopher is tall, there is no doubt of it, his shoulders are wide but his muscles are sinew under his pale skin.

The uniform he wears in unconventional as well. At a glance, you can see the traditional colours of it all, blue with striped silver, dark breeches and a dark tunic. His left arm is heavily laced with silverlite plate, not thick by any means, but in comparison his right arm is naked. Archer’s gloves on his hands, a leather harness tight around his chest, and a large drape of fabric slung over his shoulder, that ties at his waist and hangs down behind his knees. His boots are heavily armoured too, a bit dirty from the snow and mud but still shining silverlite. It’s as if he’s trying to cover all bases of defence and offence within his uniform.

The seconds slip by and the Warden says nothing to him, he waits and Thom holds his nerve. Some nobles are the kind of people who only speak first, and if he’s here to drag Thom away, then he’d rather they were on good terms. There’s barking outside, and a woman’s yelp before Cousland strides away; heavy boots clunking against the wooden floor.

“Oaklain.” Andrastopher shouts when the barking continues. His voice is deep, a traditional noble-Ferelden, tempered and strong. Thom retakes his seat and fiddles with the loaf of sweet bread they’re sharing between them. Cousland is an odd man, for sure, and everyone had heard tales of the fifth blight, exaggerated or not, they still had an element of truth to them. No One grins at him from across the table, chuckling with food in his mouth. Thom has to laugh at him for it, and feels his body relax and let go of the tension he just held.

He has to meet in the war room to discuss their latest journey. Running through what had happened, what they had fought and where, and reporting back on the Fallow Mire. Fulton announces he will be returning home to his wife and children, and Thom can see the pained look on Goddard’s face clearly. The Inquisitor lets his son go despite Twyla’s protests. An hour or so passes before the meeting is called to an end, and he is allowed to go about his day as he usually would.

He finds Fulton saddling his horse in the lower courtyard, dressed in expensive riding leathers, and very much ready to leave.

“You’ve got good advice in you, Thom. What would you do?” He asks tightening the saddle straps with quick harsh tugs, the horse whinnies at the action.

“Pardon, My Lord?” Thom said. He’s on his way to see No One, hoping to teach him a few tricks for Wicked Grace, and to find out whether his comment last night had stirred something within the man. Eating together had been normal, even if Thom was hypersensitised to how close they had sat together.

“Your dad turns up with a bastard, and expects you to just accept it, I’m still grieving for my brother and I’m the villain in all of this.” He huffs and runs his hands through his shaggy hair. “We’re all expected to- I’m not going to be Bann Trevelyan, Twyla will, my father has nothing to offer _me_.”

“That’s not true.”

“He plunged his sword into my little brother’s heart, no mercy, no kindness, with that bastard here who’s to say he wouldn’t do the same to me?”

“Your brother was... That was different-” Thom stated, and it was so very different. Wakefield had been a Red Templar, the shards had pierced his face, his chest, his hands. Goddard had faltered for just a second, and when his lyrium addled son came too close with his sword raised high, practiced war flourished in Goddard’s muscles. His sword deflected the blow and pierced his heart, he collapsed with his child in his arms. “-The Inquisitor wouldn’t-”

“ _The Inquisitor_.” He spits. “He’s not my father anymore, he hasn’t been for some time. Just some holy prick, a fucking icon for Thedas, and that’s what he has always bloody wanted.”

“Fulton, he’s a good man. Wrong sometimes, ill-tempered, but he’s a good man.”

“Piss on him, piss on them all.” He seethes. Fulton tries to mount his horse, but Thom stands his ground and keeps his grip heavy on the saddle. He can’t let Fulton leave it like this, it’s not his place nor his fight but Fulton is, or at least was, a friend to him.

Fulton bloodies Thom’s nose. It’s a single punch, aimed well, and angled to make up for the height difference, and Thom blows the blood out as he staggers back, feeling as if he’s back where he was months ago. A cacophony of gasps surrounds them, but a single shout blazes through them all like the sweep of a great sword.

“Oi! You big fuck.” No One shouts, jogging down the stone staircase towards the two men. “Fight someone your own size, cunt.” It’s a lacking insult; Fulton’s height stands at six and five, there’s few to match it.

“Excuse me?” Fulton sneered. Thom has to shake the pain from his face and stumble after Fulton’s lunging stride. The young noble has weeks of pent up anger threatening to spill out over No One, because the idiot wanted to jump to Thom’s defence. He can see Fulton rubbing his knuckles where they had connected to Thom’s face, he was hurt, all three of them were, and it could only get worse.

“I said-”

“Don’t.” Thom shouts. But it’s too late. Fulton swings for No One, his fist clips the side of his head but No One’s hand bears heavily upwards into Fulton’s armpit. It’s not a strong move, not when you’re only fighting with fists, but if No One had a sword in hand it would have slipped between his armour and beneath his skin and bloodied him something awful. Fulton grabs the shoulders of the druffalo wool and No One bows to escape from his grasp. Splaying his arms out wide, mocking the nobleman, taunting him into another attack.

He charges the blonde, catching him around the waist and driving him into the floor. No One cups the back of his head as he goes down, his knuckles bearing the damage as Fulton pulls back, his fist raised high. He creases when both of No One’s hands force against his stomach, catching the lower branches of his ribs. The fist crashes weakly against the floor as No One curls up against the noble man, his head cracking against Fulton’s bearded jaw and forcing him to lose his balance.

No One follows him through the motion, pushing him backwards until he is flat on his back. Fulton makes to grab for No One’s neck, his hands clawing at the man’s collarbone, but he roughly slaps them away.  He’s not heavy enough to pin the nobleman down, and with a twist of his hips No One is unseated and rolled off to one side. He goes with the motion, kicking out his legs so he can turn into a stand with an awkward stagger, cursing his injured knee.

A rush of armoured footsteps are soon upon them, and No One has to blink away the sight of chevalier armour until it’s replaced by the green cloth and steel plate of Inquisition soldiers. They stand between the two men, forcing them both to stay a few feet apart. Thom is by his side quick enough, druffalo wool slung over one shoulder, and pushing at the split in his forehead.

Thom, No One realises, is not there solely to check over the wound in his temple, but to stop the guardsmen from forcing him into a cell, or bearing down upon him with armoured fists.

“The Inquisitor will have to hear about this, Lord Trevelyan, we can see you to the healer.” One soldier says, trying to check him for any wounds. The blood on the young noble had come from No One, who’s still recovering from the tavern brawl he had four days ago. Fulton tells the men to release him, and with a hissed warning to No One, he mounts his horse quickly and starts his journey back home.

“Serah, if you could come with us.” Another soldier said. Thom scowled at the guardsman, his fingers still examining the cut above No One’s brow. “Ser Rainier, he attacked His Worship’s son.” It’s not deep, but it’s pissing blood, Thom knows from experience that it’ll need stitching.

“I’ll watch him.” Thom grunted, pulling off his glove and wedging it into a ball to press against the wound, telling No One to keep pressure on it.

“That is not-” The guard started, offended that his command had been dismissed so easily by someone as low as him. He moves to take No One’s hands in chains before Thom steps more obtusely in the way.

“I said, I’ll watch him.”

“The Inquisitor will hear of this, Ser Rainier.” The guard grits his teeth and raises his fist to his chest in a salute. There was only a few who had been able to rush to the fight in order to separate the brawling men, so there was little chance of them taking both Thom and No One into the cells. The blonde waggles his fingers at them as they leave, grinning with iron at how they marched off with disgruntled steps.

“Ser Rainier.” No One snorts mockingly and prods him in the chest. Thom cuffs him around the uninjured side of his brow, wary of his wounds and the glove he has balled up against his face.

“Daft idiot.” He scolds, “I’m not a bloody damsel, I didn’t need you wading in with your bloody big-” what was he supposed to say? Boots? The man still didn’t wear any, “ _Feet_.”

“You didn’t seem to want to defend yourself.” No One scoffs, he pulls Thom’s glove away from his wound and it’s sticky, red, and dripping.

“I wasn’t going to, the lad’s harmless.”

“He broke your nose, and-” He gestures to the wound on his brow, “this.” He refolds the glove and presses it back against his forehead.

“It’s not broken.”

“Looks it.” No One jabs him with his elbow again and grins at the other man.

“Where are you going?” Thom calls when No One starts to walk away. The blonde lowers the bloodied glove like it were a hat and then presses it back against his forehead. He’ll need stitches for it, and he’s not the best at sewing but he can at least try. Thom follows him wherever he plans to go, there’s blood in his beard and it’s dripped from his nose into his mouth.

Thom’s room is the next best place considering No One refuses to see a healer. He has a soldier’s kit for wounds that he hasn’t used in a while, and he’s got the Inquisitor’s gift of tailored armour to thank for that.

He sits No One on the bed, and moves the vanity stool in between his spread legs, giving Thom a place to sit for when he stitches up his forehead. The washbowl is sat on the chest beside the bed and he pulls out the chamber pot for something to drop bloodied rags in. Thom washes his hands and pours a small amount of spirit from the kit’s bottle to soak the needle in.

No One watches him go through the motions of setting up an area for healing, and it’s something he knows well. All soldiers get the same basic training. Some people might believe that all you need is a well-trained spirit healer with you to fix up all your wounds with magic, but those are few and far between, and even then, that’s only one person. That one person who has to decide who to save and when, and shouldn’t be hassled over minor wounds like these. Still, No One hadn’t learnt the grace of neat stitching.

Thom sits on the vanity stool, his legs between No One’s, and lets the bloodied glove fall into the chamber pot. He pours a finger of whiskey over the wound, then the tipple of spirit, letting the excess drip down into the chamber pot, before he starts to thread his needle through the wound.

To No One’s credit he doesn’t flinch as the wound stings and prickles with wetness, nor at the needle pulling him back together. He’s too focused on Thom’s face. The crease of concentration between his brow, the way he chews his cheek when he forces the needle through. No One is almost disappointed at how quickly it’s all over.

Thom drops a rag into the washbowl and carefully wipes away the blood on No One’s face, as a mother would do to a messy child. He can feel the warmth of Thom’s hand cradling his face when he wipes down his cheek, and scrubs the blood from his stubble. It’s loving, and it’s an intimacy rarely shared between soldiers on the field. He cleans the blood from his hand next, gently wiping between the joints of his fingers, and clearing away the blood that had slipped down his forearm.

There’s a moment, when they catch each other’s eyes, and Thom’s palm returns to cupping No One’s face, a clean, dry rag in hand. It’s as if time stops around them. No wind creeping through gaps in the stonework, no fire crackling to one side, only the heady thrum of hearts beating too fast. They’re so close. Thom still has his own blood dried across his lips, he can taste it when he wets them, eager to lean in and kiss the other man. He’s been thinking about it for weeks, and it’s not how he imagines it might have been, but he’ll take it.

“Ser Rainier.” A voice calls from beyond the closed door, and time resumes for both men. No One sniffs as he looks away, grabbing the soldier’s kit mirror to look at the wound; it’s neatly done. Their lips remain strangers.

“Yes?” Thom calls, pushing away from the bed and shifting the stool back under the vanity.

“Is Serah Saile in there with you? We’ve a call for his arrest.” There’s a pause when the two men glance at one another. “The Inquisitor has ordered he be brought to the cells.”

“On what charge?” Thom says.

“Brutality against his son; Lord Fulton Trevelyan the Second, earlier this morning, I- _hey_.” The door swings open and a soldier marches in, grabbing at No One’s hands with iron and dragging him from his seat on the bed. Thom is held back by two others, but he recognises the man forcing No One out of the room. It’s the same guard from this morning, a grin on his lips as he shoves No One down the halls and into the cells.

The cells, No One huffs, are arguably better than they were in Val Royeaux. He has more privacy with three stone walls surrounding him, he still has to sit opposite another cell, but that is empty for the moment. The guards, they definitely aren’t the friendliest he’s seen, but they’re aren’t the worst. That bastard soldier who dragged him in though, he’s a cunt. He gets word that the Inquisitor will see him when he can, but that doesn’t give him any peace. It’s odd being on the other side of these bars when not two months ago he was here to talk to Laney.

No One asks after visitors when they hand him his meal, and he gets told he’s not allowed any. It makes sense why Thom hadn’t come for him then, or at least the thought of it soothes his mind. He doesn’t want to think that trying to kiss him had alienated him, they’ve come so far together it’s hardly worth throwing away over what might be a mistake.

A night passes and he watches the moonlight drag through the room. He thinks himself lucky when it only catches half of his cell, before falling behind the walls that surround him. Footsteps distract him from his thoughts, the clanging of metal dragging across the bars from down the hallway. Everyone in the cells wakes up at the ringing sound, grumbling and cursing the man causing the noise. It’s the fog of silence that follows which worries No One, when the hisses turn into regretful whispers.

“Those who can fight, stand, those who can’t can remain sitting.” The voice called, deep and traditional noble-Ferelden, tempered and strong. Heavy footfalls echoing down the room, and No One figures out exactly who it is. “Are any of those standing bound for the noose?” Silence follows and the footsteps grow closer. He stops at every person standing, stares at them for a moment, some even try to talk to him, but he walks on and ignores them.

“Why aren’t you standing?” Andrastopher says, turning to face the cell No One sits in.

“I don’t know how to fight.” No one lies, a shrug upon his shoulders.

“I saw you fighting the Inquisitor’s son, I saw you roll a man twice your weight, you can fight.” He steps closer to the bars and whispers so quietly that only No One can hear him; “ _Chevalier_.” Fear strikes him so hard that it takes a moment for him to bring up an excuse, a lie, something to untangle the rope gathering around his neck.

“I…” No One says, voice steady but his knuckles white as they gripped his shirt, _Thom’s_ shirt.

“I’m not one for posture or politics,” Andrastopher explains, louder to the whole room, “tomorrow, one by one, you will show me how well you can fight, and then I will give you the choice to serve or stay.”

“Wait,” No One says, pulling himself up and reaching beyond the bars for the Warden. “Thom, Thom Rainier, will you conscript him?”

“Does it affect your decision?”

“Aye.” No One nods, “Aye, he affects my decision, it _makes_ my decision.” Andrastopher watches him carefully, the man is almost pleading, but he’s got too much pride to beg verbally.

“You’re lovers?” He said, more like a statement than a question. No One can’t figure out how the Warden had put that together, are his feelings displayed so clearly in his expressions? He used to play the Grand Game so well, but you spend so much time hiding behind a gilded mask you tend to forget what your true face looks like.

“Not yet.” He grins pathetically. The Warden doesn’t say anything, he just walks away with his heavy boots clanking against the stonework.

Andrastopher can remember his time with the Wardens, how hateful he had been towards them, Duncan especially, conscripted against his will. But it had been a good path in the end, and he knows how close people can grow within the order. Those without a spouse back home find comfort in the strangest of places, even himself, who had fallen in love with the man who had been hired to kill him. He will speak to Thom, properly this time, and dig out whatever he is able to.

There were very few times that Andrastopher would conscript someone into the Wardens, only to save them from hanging or any conflicting ties of duty. Now, he realises, after the majority of the Orlesian Grey Wardens had been killed at Adamant, recruits were needed more than ever.

No One slides down on the wall back to how he was sitting. He had overplayed his hand massively, and one word had been his undoing, again. For years he hadn’t fought, knowing the footwork would sing of his training. Yet in one moment, all of his pretences had fallen away to defend one man. He was bound for the noose if the Warden told anyone, of that he had no doubt. His fists tangle in his hair, and he kicks out his legs childishly, he can imagine it now. _You have a chevalier deserter in your cells._

 _Death before Dishonour_ , he thinks, the old chevalier saying. He had convinced himself all those years ago that he had died at the hands of that werewolf, but he wouldn’t be able to convince anyone else. After all, it had been chevaliers who had forced him into its jaws, and chevaliers who had died by it’s claws. No One remembers his own family’s motto, _Pride in Duty_ , and wonders when his pride and his duty had become so vile and twisted.

No One leaves both meals that he is given, and listens to the wind singing through the fortress, waiting for someone to come to interrogate him. _Chevalier deserter_. Outside of the Orlesian order deserters were hardly known, after all they usually cleaned up their own messes. But he had shamed his family with a deserter; a family wherein every able-bodied baby boy became a chevalier. Almost every noble house knew that the Baroulx’s eldest boy had deserted. At least they thought he was dead, a small silver lining on the darkened storm cloud that he is.

He hears mumbling down at the entrance to the cells later in the day, and footsteps walking the length of it. They stop in front of his own room, and No One can’t bear the thought of looking at whoever it might be. The Warden back again to conscript him properly? The Inquisitor to question his chevalier status? That bastard soldier? Thom?

The watcher stays quiet, waiting for No One’s attention. Perhaps they’re not even looking at him, the view from the damaged section of cells is quite a thing to behold, more so at sunrise. He spares a glance at the intruder, and sorrow pierces his gut. The Warden must have spoken of his status, and how he had not adhered to the chevalier code like a true Orlesian.


	23. Deserter

Thom has little choice but to sulk after cleaning the blood from his face. Cullen had told him that he couldn’t release Luin until the Inquisitor knew the status of Fulton’s health, and since he had ridden off in a hurry, there was little else to do but wait for Goddard and the scouts who had chased him to come back. But Maker he felt so useless. He had tried to visit him, to explain the situation or to make sure he’s alright, or to try and explain the almost kiss. Though he’s not sure the last one needed explaining.

The memory pulled his lips into a small smile. No One hadn’t pulled away, and what was happening was evident, which did everything to bolster Thom’s confidence. To think that he had spent over a month worrying about the whole scenario, when _something_ at the very least was reciprocated. It makes him feel wholeheartedly young, as if he was courting for the first time in a long time. He knows it’s not exactly far from the truth, as it had been years since he had properly made the attempt at something longer than a few nights, or something that wasn’t paid for in advance.

If that guard hadn’t shouted through the door or he had been a minute later he could have tasted the iron that No One held in his mouth. It makes it all the more worse that it hadn’t been a regular interruption, but one that would keep them apart for the near future.

A wooden training soldier took the brunt of his anger, the sand bag spilling out onto the sheet beneath itself. Thom had thought that Cassandra would leave the area, not out of cowardice but out of disgust, and it’s good to know she’s not so repulsed by him as she once had been. It’s progress, even if for every dozen who came into Skyhold at least eight of them thought he was a heartless murderer.

He thinks often about apologising again to the people who had once called him a friend. For lying, for deceiving them as he had, though if he had known the Herald of Andraste had been the man recruiting him he might have altered his path. But he doesn’t deserve their forgiveness, and it’s not truly their forgiveness he’s seeking. His men who had followed him against the Caliers, that’s who he needed to apologise to. If only they weren’t so awkward to find. He was glad for the news about one man, and he’s starting to figure out where he is now, but it’s a slow progress and his mind has been clouded lately.

Thom eats at the tavern that night alone, and wanders the ramparts afterwards; too restless to sleep. It’s strange he knows, as No One is safe so close by, but his memory takes him back to when he had first met him.

Back in Val Royeaux Thom had thought his strange cell mate was bound for the noose, he had originally confessed a murder to him after all. But he had told him to come to Skyhold, which he had, to join the Inquisition and to be a better man, which was debateable at best. In Thom’s mind, No One has become a better man. He wasn’t heckling or picking fights just because he could any more, Thom chews the inside of his cheek when he thinks of the latter. No One had fought Fulton, but only to jump to Thom’s defence, and the fight before that he had done it to defend his faith. These weren’t bad reasons, Thom thinks, just badly executed.

But there are other things about No One, Thom thinks, that makes him wonder whether he had been a good man all along. Some of the things he had said, the small bits of who he is that Thom pulls at like frayed string. He wasn’t no one, not like he had said he was. He had a family, he had a place of birth and a nameday, he had dreams and aspirations just like every other man in Thedas. No One was a normal man who had made some bad decisions in life, and he can relate to that deeply.

Thom doesn’t want to call him No One any longer. It’s false, and it rings hollow in his chest. He wants to say his name, whatever it is, whether it’s Florent or not, he wants to know. A yearning in his gut; almost a fantasy, of kissing a trail down his neck with his name on his lips. Spitting foul seductions into his ears, moaning his name, there’s a thousand things he wants to do but he hasn’t the name to do so.

_Florent_ , he thinks it clear in his mind. His Free Marcher tongue finding it’s Orlesian lilt as he mouths the name _. Florent, Florent, Florent._

“Florent.” He sighs aloud, he can’t ask him. The fade will swallow the world before he does, he snorts to himself when he leans over the ramparts, with everything happening right now it’s not such a far-fetched idea. Thom convinces himself if it’s the end of the world and he still doesn’t know No One’s name, he’ll ask him and damned be his promise. When he turns he can see the Inquisition banners that made up the other man’s home, and he decides to walk that way around the ramparts so his feet will take him closer.

The small home built into the crevasse of the mountain fortress felt odd knowing that No One wasn’t inside. There’s no fire lit outside, no snores from inside. Thom glances around almost nervously before he sets about climbing inside of the home.

Cosy is the first word that springs to Thom’s mind, the house is cosy, borderline luxurious camping albeit much smaller. Enough room to bed two. He sits back on the pillows that make up just a little over half of the room, and he feels a sliver of excitement of being there. He’s sat in here before, but not alone, nor when he knew what he knew about No One’s actions towards him. A glimmer of hope; the blonde might even have feelings for him.

He picks through No One’s books, laughs when he spies a dogeared _Ravish Me; A Tale of Beasts_ , an Antivan risqué book about half-beast lovers who find each other, mostly under the sheets, but to each his own. It’s an Orlesian version of the original written by Emmet Saile and Thom frowns at the name. No One couldn’t have lied about where he had gotten his false name from, surely. He had the false coin the man had given him. But if that was a lie, he stops himself from thinking too much about it. It was a name, a fake name, but it didn’t stop Thom from wandering over his thoughts about No One’s real name once more.

Thom’s glad nobody else had to suffer this strange sense of unknowing about himself. They had all thought his name was Blackwall, and he had only ever uttered _Gordon_ a few times because that felt too cruel to take both of his names and his life. He huffs and crawls out of the small home. Thom respects No One’s privacy, and how he wants to keep that and a lot more hidden away. But he wants to help him shed the guilt, or whatever clouds him, and to help him move on from it all. It’s a trying task when he doesn’t know what or who he’s running from.

“Florent.” He whispers again. It’s only a morsel of a name, but it’s something. His thoughts over No One’s name do nothing to quell the flutter in his chest when he thinks of him. Laughter bubbles from his throat at the thought of murmuring _No One_ as he kisses down his neck, it reminds him of a story he heard in is childhood about tricking giants.

Thom wakes up early the next morning and heads out with Raas and the other woodcutters. He hasn’t done a shift with them in a while, Garron was right about him being able to pick and choose when he wanted to work. No One remained locked in a cell, and Thom remained unable to speak to him. He thought he may as well try to do something useful, and to keep his mind off of things. Garron spends half the time babbling about this or that, and Thom barely manages to keep his mind affixed to his words; bloody Starkhaven bard.

“Oh, Thom, how’s your friend doing?” Garron shouts over, taking a moment to breathe and to stretch out his shoulders. He does good work for a lad who’s been pampered since birth.

“My friend?” Thom turns to him, sitting on the stump he’s using to carve the logs shorter for carrying.

“Easton,” his face screws up when Thom frowns at him, he doesn’t know anyone called Easton, “Easton Nock, he has that long blonde moustache.” Garron dangles his fingers in front of his own face to make his point.

“Oh, _Easton_ , he’s in a cell.” So much for a place to clear his head. Thom runs his hands through his hair and shakes off a few flecks of wood from his gloves. _Easton,_ what was the use of another name? Mostly those in Skyhold who knew of him knew him as Luin, or evidently as _Thom’s friend_. He wonders if that will change to _Thom’s lover_ in time, if they ever get that far. Redness spreads across his nose and he scrubs at his cheeks to will it down, the idea burns his gut a bit too pleasantly for being in public.

“For what?” Garron leaves his axe embedded in a tree and jogs over to Thom. He’s breathless and red faced from working and talking, but his grin is evident and his eyes are wide and his ears are perked.

“Fighting.” Thom sighs.

“I told you, Garron. Is he well otherwise?” Raas interrupts, “He wouldn’t let us take him to a healer.” She stops with the trunk she’s carrying to talk with them, squatting carefully as she rests it on the ground before she can stand again.

“What?”

“In the tavern, must have been six or seven of them on him. He didn’t even fight back.” Raas says. She picks at some of the wooden flecks across the log, and flicks them into the snow. Thom winces at her words. No One hadn’t told him that part of the event. According to him there had only been one or two, who had been just as bruised as he was when they had all left the tavern.

“The only reason they stopped was because we stepped in and knocked one of them out.” Garron says, brushing the flecks of wood off his shoulder and frowning at Raas. “One hit and bang-” he cracks his palms together “-on the floor.”

“You mean Raas did.” Leland scoffs. Garron turns his stare towards the older man, it wasn’t as if he was lying. But he wanted a little of the glory even if he hadn’t wanted to wade into the fight, and had tried to stop Raas from stepping in as well.

“How did it start?” Thom asks, he has to know if had no One lied about his reasons for fighting. The only kind of man who takes on a group, single headedly, without defending himself is the kind who wants to get killed.

“One of the workers started making a scene, pissed out of his skull, starts howling his way through the Chant of Light and claiming he’s the next Trevelyan bastard.” Garron has to snigger through Raas’ explanation; it had been quite a show. “Easton gets up and starts cursing him out, all bark and no bite.”

“ _I’m the man who’s cock you’ll be sucking through bloodied gums if you don’t stop talking_.” He hisses in imitation, “Thom you should have heard him. It would have made a fine song if he’d fought them all off.”

“Did they take the others into the cells?” Raas asks, squatting to pick up the trunk again.

“I don’t know,” Thom said feeling guilty for not trusting him, “he was arrested for fighting with Fulton, the Inquisitor’s son.” Garron lets out a low whistle, and the sound of axes on wood falls silent, even Raas stumbles in her work and drops the log back to the ground.

“I guess he wasn’t defending the Inquisitor’s honour then.” Garron breaks the silence with a quick mumble.

“He’s devout.” Thom says. That above everything else isn’t a lie, no man would go to such lengths to prove he’s Andrastian.

“Devout but doesn’t like the _Herald of Andraste_?”

“Mustn’t like nobility,” Leland laughs, and throws a look to the Stark “some of you can be right pains.” Raas and Wesley stop the two men from scrambling in the snow and leave Thom to think on Leland’s words.

It seems to stitch together the fragments of who No One is in Thom’s mind. Some of the things he’s said about rich men, the disrespect for titles and standings, the way he goads them into fighting with him. No One must despise them. Thom realises the seed of that particular knowledge had been planted within the first few weeks that he had met the man. He had said something about trying, and how everyone had just moved on from it all without a second thought.

His mind starts to turn more aggressively, who was No One to have such a hatred, if he indeed did, towards the nobles? The one-sided fighting he’s heard about, it makes more sense if he has learnt not to fight against people of importance. A soldier of sorts, a Red Jenny? Thom thinks, or a bard? He has the voice for it. It’s all too confusing, trying to put together a puzzle when more than half of the pieces are missing and he only has one corner.

Thom knows he wants to kiss the man, he wants more than to just kiss him for Maker’s sake. But he had originally wanted to help him overcome whatever plagued him, to pull him back from the brink and to guide him into a better life like Blackwall had done for him. He’s starting to wonder whether he should take Varric’s advice. Thom scrubs his eyes and gets back to work. It seems to be whenever he’s not with No One he starts to realise how truly obscure the blonde is, and he’s not entirely sure why that all falls away when he’s with him. Rather, he’s not ready to admit what his inkling might be.

The visiting Grey Warden is at the gates when the group returns to Skyhold with firewood and wood for crafting, all three of his mabari sitting patiently at his feet. He stands out a head taller than most, and the Couslands weren’t particularly tall, Andrastopher was just freakishly so for a human.

“Ser Rainier.” He calls out to him, and Raas gives his shoulder a gentle squeeze before he walks over to him and offers a salute.

“Warden Commander.” Thom says. He can feel eyes on him, watching the exchange again, just like how it was back in the tavern. The honourable versus the dishonoured. At least they’re talking this time. Andrastopher whistles sharply and starts up the stone slope, with a nod to Thom to ensure he follows. The mabaris’ ears perk up and the follow his steps, Thom at the back of the pack.

“There’s a place for you in the Wardens.” Andrastopher states once they stand on the ramparts above the gatehouse. Thom’s momentarily stunned by the words, he hadn’t expected him to be so forthright. “It won’t be easy. People tend to assume all your crimes are forgotten once you join, but they’re not.” He leans down to one side to scratch behind the ear of one of his dogs. “You’ve heard of Senior Warden Loghain Mac Tir?”

“I met him, Ser, he was... He fought bravely at Adamant.” Thom nods, taking a place beside the Warden, and staring out over the lengthy stone bridge. One of his dogs sniffs around Thom’s legs and licks at his shoes.

“He hated Orlesians and he hated the Wardens. So naturally he was sent, by those who condemned his actions at Ostagar, to serve with the Orlesian Grey Wardens.” Andrastopher doesn’t speak with much emotion in his voice. “He’s not the worst, I’ll admit that I admired him. There are men and women in the order who have done terrible things, and their crimes are excused, but there is a hierarchy to Wardens based solely on one’s previous life.” He leans over the edge and catches the guards on the flanking battlements playing cards. “That is, of course, only if you tell the others.”

“How so?”

“The Wardens who have killed children cannot condemn me for killing a child, but they will condemn the rapists. Thieves will condemn them all, smugglers more so. Liars and frauds are probably the cleanest of us all, and those who join willingly, unfortunately, believe they are better than the rest of us.” Andrastopher turns towards Thom, staring with blank hooded eyes and an exhausted gaze. “You are a deserter, a liar, and a murderer of women and children. So is your friend, I gather.”

“He is? A deserter I mean.” Thom asks scrabbling for information. No One had already confessed to murder, and he lies so much that you wouldn’t trust him to tell you the weather when you’re standing in it. Thom’s not excusing the other man’s actions, but he cannot denounce No One for doing something so similar to what he had done himself.

“He’s one of the best, or one of the worst. It depends entirely upon your viewpoint.” Andrastopher shrugs. Thom doesn’t know exactly what that means, but he wants to. “I am loathed to conscript unwilling men; your friend will not come without you.”

“You want to conscript him?”

“He’s a strong fighter, and sooner or later without divine or a Grey Warden’s intervention he will be hanged.”

“Desertion isn’t always a death sentence,” Thom frowns, and then bites out a quick “Ser.” It’s easy to forget he’s talking to the Grey Warden Commander when he portrays the air of any common man. Andrastopher turns away with a nod and stares back out over the bridge. It’s almost calming to watch people wander the length of it in their journeys to and from Skyhold.

“Will you join the Grey Wardens, Ser Rainier?” He says after a few seconds of silence.

“I pledged my life to the Inquisition, if you want me to come willingly you’ll have to speak to the Inquisitor, Ser.” Thom states, almost as if it had been practiced. He hadn’t voiced it aloud before, but he knew that the Warden Commander might ask him and he knew he couldn’t go on his own preference without betraying his oath to the Inquisitor.

“I’ll rephrase my question. Do you want me to _conscript_ you into the Grey Wardens, Ser Rainier?”

“No, Ser.” Thom says after a short pause. “When Corypheus is defeated or if the Inquisition is ever disbanded, I would, but at this moment I can’t, not, not now.” He says it because he knows that Corypheus is slowly re-emerging as a threat, and that every sword will be needed in the upcoming battles. But No One has value in his decision, and with the new knowledge that the blonde would also become a Grey Warden when Thom did, meant that he wasn’t just choosing for himself.

“I see. Your friend will be released in a few hours,” Andrastopher says, and steps back from the edge of the ramparts. “He was held longer so that I might see to him, though the offer remains open to both of you.”

“Why? If I may ask, Ser.”

“I was conscripted against my will, hiding in a kitchen larder with my mother, both of us kneeling in my father’s blood.” Andrastopher turns to face Thom, and it’s the first sign of any emotion on the Warden’s face. His dogs press in closer to his armoured legs, nuzzling the silverlite. “My ancestral home was invaded, my family and my lover were killed, and I feared the worst for my absent brother.”

“I’m sorry.” Thom whispers.        

“The man who conscripted me forced me to leave my mother behind knowing she would die, or be held and tortured. But as I said, I am loathed to conscript unwilling men, rarely do they act accordingly.” He offers a smile before the blank expression falls over Andrastopher’s face once more, and with a sharp whistle to his dogs, he’s gone. Thom trusts him, he realises, to divulge such information to man he had only just met, Thom would follow him in a heartbeat if things were different.

All the Grey Wardens knew of the Cousland Massacre. Often it was used to inspire others to conscript new recruits even when they didn’t want to, though that practice had been kept hidden from the Warden Commander of Ferelden. Blackwall had told Thom about some of the more gruesome details that were forgotten as the tale was passed from one to another, and he had banished some of the more perverse rumours. But it was different to hear it from the mouth of the sole survivor; worse indefinitely. No amount of gore and terror could stand up to the personal accounts of that night from Andrastopher Cousland.

In the underbelly of the mountain fortress No One stares at the man beyond his cell bars. Polished leather boots, expensive embroidery across the thick cape with a fur neck slung about his shoulders, a high collar and a pair of embroidered gloves. Inquisitor Trevelyan.

“I must apologise, first and foremost, Serah Saile.” Goddard said. “I was told my son had been brutally beaten and had fled Skyhold in a daze, when myself and my scouts found him he was a little flustered perhaps, but hardly dying as I had been told.”  No One doesn’t bother standing to talk to him, and turns his head away to hide his relief. The Warden Commander mustn’t have told him, or at least he hadn’t done so yet.

“I get thrown in a cell but your son walks free?” He scoffs. “I’m the one who bled, I’m the injured party, where’s Andraste’s justice, oh Mighty Herald?”

“You verbally threatened my son.”

“He punched Thom.” No One bites. He stands and leans against the bars which still hold him. “Are you hiding behind these or am I to remain in here?” He says.

“I did think it was bad luck that you’d suffered here, first with Serah Lane, then the working men, and now with this.” He says, and turns towards No One with his heels clacking against the ground. “But with the way you’re so eager to antagonise people, I’m not surprised.” No One remained silent, threading his arms through the bars, estimating how far Goddard was away from him. “At the very least you’re not fraudulently obtaining coin here.” Goddard scrubs at his jaw and raises an eyebrow at No One’s hands. The blonde pretends he’s not planning to grab him through the bars as soon as he’s realised that the other has seen. Though the thought that he can piss further than his arms can reach redeems his ego and bolsters his over-confidence.

“You didn’t answer my questions.”

“The guard will be coming with the keys soon. You’re a free man, and as for Andraste’s justice? I am her Herald, I am not her voice nor her will.” He tilted his head towards him as a farewell and strode away with his clicking heels. The Inquisitor kept his frown hidden until he was well away from the prisons; he didn’t like lying and had hoped that the Warden Commander would have taken him away. Luin, or rather _Not_ _Luin_ , had a face that incited emotions in Goddard that had long since been quelled.

Perhaps there’s still time to convince Cousland to take him, Goddard thinks. After all they’ll be in close communication to deal with the werewolf problem, what harm could it do to give the Warden another issue to fix.

No One is released later that evening and walks through the fortress unseen, it’s easy to slip passed people when he wants to. At least it used to be, wearing dirty rags and hobbling like a three-legged horse made people turn away more often than not. He’s safely inside his small home soon enough, and he lies back on the pillows simply listening to the world around him.

Most of the sound is muffled from the tarp of his home dancing in the wind, he can hear soldiers in the courtyard, birds and wolves in the distance, and the constant chatter of guests in the fortress. If he closes his eyes he can almost imagine being back home. No One scrubs at his face and sits back up, thinking about the years that had passed never got him anyplace good. Things had changed now, and regardless of what the Grey Warden intended to do, this last year hadn’t been too bad. He had met Thom after all.

Lying back down again he thinks of the other man. Fatigue overwhelms him through the ideas of romance that filter through his mind. If he were a normal man, the things he and Thom could do, it made his gut flutter and his heart sing.

Chevaliers hunt him down in his dreams, and the wolf hunts them all. His mind takes him through the four days of staggering fever, the dizziness, and the vomiting in mere seconds. Then in the distance stand two men. No One feels drunk in the Fade, stumbling towards them, but with every step they remain the same distance away. He wakes up with his hands buried in the firepit’s ashes, and he’s glad he never lit the thing earlier.

He does light the fire to chase away the chill in the air when he’s fully awake, and reads through the rest of The Tale of The Champion waiting for Thom to wake up. No One should have spoken to him yesterday when he was officially released, but the nights in the cell had left him tired and borderline exhausted. Sleep came to him rarely, and as the years went by it only seemed to worsen. Though since meeting Thom his dreams had begun to fluctuate, and definitely for the better. The two pale men who had appeared, he had never seen them before, and he can’t get them out of his head.

No One finishes the book quickly, and frowns at the ending. It’s too much of a fairy tale, how Hawke and his group had all survived with little to no injuries.

“Haven’t finished that yet?” Thom says from beside him, No One hadn’t even heard him approach. He turns the book around to show him the final page, a small note at the end for Daisy, whoever that was. The blonde stands and sets the book on his chair, stepping toward Thom and slapping both his hands on his shoulders. It’s awkward, but his stuttered grin is worth it. He pulls him in close for an embrace, his fingers curling in the thick padding of his coat and sighing into his neck.

Thom relaxes in his grip; his hands slip under the druffalo wool and bask in the warmth of the other man. It’s unexpected, and the puff of air against his skin makes his hair stand on end and his belly grow hot.

“No One?” Thom says, almost loathe to pull away from the other man. No One hums and keeps Thom in his grip, he meant a lot to him, and the Warden posed a threat to take him away. He wants to make sure Thom knows exactly what sort of impact he has had on his life.

“Two nights in a cell and I’m ruined.” He laughs as he pulls away, scratching at the back of his neck. Coward, he thinks to himself, perhaps it’s better that Thom doesn’t know.

“Come on,” Thom offers a hand to him to help him up the ladder, “Cabot serves food even as early as this.” No One takes it and their hands linger together for a moment. They walk around the ramparts until they reach the steps to the lower courtyard, their elbows bump together and their steps fall in rhythm, and No One slings his arm over Thom’s shoulders. He bites his tongue when an arm wraps around his waist in return.

There’s a familiar comfort in eating with Thom, even as early as this, and he doesn’t think anything of pulling the iron from his mouth in front of him anymore. He still catches the man glancing at the lyrium stained guards, and it’s obvious enough there’s a question on his tongue.

“You can ask me about them.” No One whispers, and they’re close enough the Thom can hear him over the growing morning bustle.

“I didn’t want to pry.”

“Fair enough.” He picks them up and watches some of the lyrium drip off in a glob of saliva. “I’d like to tell you someday, if you’re interested.” He adds, placing them down gently and spooning pottage into his mouth.

“Why the lyrium?”

“It’s just something I’ve done for years.” It’s the most honest he’s ever been with Thom, and it makes his palms sweat. “I don’t know whether I’m addicted or not, I don’t crave the stuff but I’ve never gone dry.” He shrugs.

“Thank you, for telling me.” Thom places his hand over No One’s gently, squeezes it in his grasp before he pulls away. He wonders if No One is a Templar deserter. It explains his faith, the murdered father could have been a mage, and it’s not easy to leave the Order when they’ve got you chained to lyrium.

“Believe me, Thom, I could tell you a thousand things, but it wouldn’t be worth it for either of us.”

“No bastard’s honour this time?” Thom chuckles, bringing a smile to No One’s lips. It’s odd to see his real teeth shining behind his lips, they’re a little worse for wear, but they’re well looked after for a man his age. _However old he was_ , and Thom realises he doesn’t know.

“How about we trade?” No One leaves a vegetable chunk in his bowl before he sits back to wedge his iron teeth back in his mouth. “Tell me something about you.”

“I’m forty-six.” Thom says, it’s the first thing that comes to mind. No One’s laughter erupts from his mouth. “What?” Thom adds, struggling to keep his own laughter from his voice.

“That’s it?” He snorts expecting almost anything else.

“Well, how old are you?”

“Ask me tomorrow.”


	24. Cold Hands

Skyhold is all aflutter the next day. People are drinking from the moment the sun rises, a feast is prepared in the great hall, and Cabot even has a few sprigs decorating the tavern. It’s not a holiday of any sort, it may be in time, but for now it is restricted to the mountain fortress. From the highest noble to the lowest servant, they all raise their glass to the Inquisitor on his seventy-third nameday.

It’s a relaxing reprieve from the tensions of war, and although both the Breach and Corypheus remain a threat, the Inquisitor allows the distraction for the day. Even if he is working tirelessly in the war room with his advisors and the newly arrived Grey Warden. Thom catches sight of Twyla across the grand hall, dressed finely in a low-cut dress meant to take one’s gaze lower to her chest and away from her weighty jawline. He offers her a wave, and she gracefully nods back. It’s odd, seeing the change from a strong-armed warrior into a fair lady like that.

She and her mother, Yetta, are accepting gifts and pleasantries on Goddard’s behalf. Most of them are forgiving, he is the Herald of Andraste after all. But there are some who obviously wait at the back of the hall so that they may have a better chance of seeing the man personally. As if the man doesn’t have more important things to do than pander to the crowds.

Thom is eager to see No One after yesterday. They had spent most of their day playing cards and exchanging betting stories, many a time had they both lost all of their clothes in a round of games. Thom finds himself a little disheartened when he can’t see the steady rise of smoke from the crevice beside the ramparts, but makes his way around nonetheless.

Inside, No One is relaxing on the pillows with _The History of Grey Wardens in Ferelden_ resting open on his face. Thom thinks he shouldn’t wake him, but he slips inside and sits opposite him regardless. He has been in here many a time before, and he’s sure the other man wouldn’t mind.

Minutes pass by and Thom starts to feel awkward, he shouldn’t really have snuck in whilst the blonde was still asleep. Most of the bruising that covered him had started to turn a mottled green, and his forehead had healed well enough that Thom will be able to remove the stitching soon. He awkwardly glances away when he realises he’s been staring at the sleeping man.

He is handsome in his own way, he has an odd sense of fashion and an odd appearance, but it all works well together. He’s taller than the average man with his long legs even as bowed as they are, his feet are lengthy and thin like his hands, and as emaciated as he once was there’s little he can do to hide the muscle which lies beneath his skin. Thom had seen the broadness of his shoulders, and the grooves and mounds of his skin which belied his life as a beggar. Much like his own though sparser; No One’s body was covered in dark hairs lanced by old scars. It’s all hidden beneath Thom’s old clothes which remain far too large for him.

No One had collected another set of books after he had lost most of them in the blizzard, and they sat neatly in a pile to one side. He removes a glove and runs his fingers down their spines mouthing the titles; _Moonlight on the Feast of Shadows_ by _Lord Fleming, Exalted: A History of the Dales_ by _Lord Ademar Garde-Haut,_ _The Sage of Dane and the Werewolf b_ y _Minstrel Uccam,_ and _The Complete Dalish Lexicon; 9:33Dragon_ by _Keeper Irahim._

The last title pulls Thom’s brows into a frown. All the ideas of No One dabbling with Dalish had been dispelled by his clean-cut Andrastianism. He had never heard of a _Dalish_ Templar after all, but he didn’t know if he even was a Templar. The only thing Thom could guarantee was that No One wasn’t a Grey Warden.

“You’re not half as quiet as you think you are.” No One says, and Thom jumps at his voice. He lets the book slip from his face and dogears his page.

“I thought you were asleep.” He offers as an unsteady explanation.

“You’re not half as perceptive either.” He snorts. His leg retreats from Thom’s offended smack, and he laughs when Thom grabs for his ankles. It devolves into a childish struggle of No One attempting to kick him and Thom slapping away the calloused feet.

“I thought you’d be out celebrating, Cabot’s prices are lowered for the day.” Thom grins breathlessly, his laughter still trickles into his words, and his cheeks are ruddy with joy.

“A special occasion?” No One sits up, resting his weight on his palms splayed behind him. Neither of them mention that the dip in prices doesn’t mean much when they both know No One drinks from Thom’s tab.

“It’s the Inquisitor’s nameday.”

“Of course it is.” He scoffs and tosses the book into the pile, forcing it to topple over and spill across the floor. Thom raises his brows at the sudden change of mood. “You should go celebrate, Thom, he’s your boss.”

“Come with me for a drink?”

“And celebrate the Herald?”

“We don’t have to,” Thom says, “it’s just a drink.” He pats No One’s ankle gently, his hand lingering on the bony limb and feeling the uncomfortable chill soaking into his palm. No One bites his tongue in his mouth.

“You go on ahead, get us some wine or something.” He smiles, “I’ll clean this up.” He points at the books and gestures for the other man to go. Thom doesn’t quite know what he had done to upset him. He knows No One doesn’t like the Inquisitor, and he doesn’t respect him either, but there’s something else that he’s hiding underneath the detest. Thom steps out of the home regardless, and tells No One he’ll be in the tavern waiting for him.

He sits so he can see the door and whoever enters or leaves, waiting for the familiar blonde to walk in with his iron smile. Bull sits with him for a while, talking dragons and tactics and more about dragons. There’s a rumour that three are nesting in the Emprise du Lion, and the Inquisitor had promised that they would clear them out eventually. It’s a trip that will be made in the coming months, they have been hearing frightful tales of what had been happening up in the mines ever since they had camped at Haven.

Thom excuses himself when an hour passes, and jogs through the snow until he’s at the stone steps leading up to the ramparts and to No One’s home. The fire is still unlit, and it’s even more unsettling than before.

“No One?” He ducks his head inside and feels his gut swim when the blonde isn’t there. In his place there is a folded letter with _Thom_ written elegantly on one side. His throat swells when he grabs it, his thumb tracing the scripture before he dares to open it. A thousand things travel through his mind, each one worse than the last, each one a needle in his heart. He breathes in deep through his twisted nose and unfolds the parchment.

Thom exhales in a rush when he takes the words in.

_Couldn’t go for drinks. There’s a small grove nearby, I’ll be there until sunset. -N_

No One sits up against the trees; remarkably sober considering everyone else back at the fortress is doing their best to lose all sense in their legs. He has no real reason to sulk, but knowing how he had acted on Adeline’s nameday; he simply doesn’t want Thom to see him like that. The snow had wept into his breeches and the edges of his tunic, though the druffalo wool was kept safe and out of the damp.

It’s peaceful here, most of the snow undisturbed save for his own footprints. The wildlife sings around him, and the skies are clear so the snow shines brightly around his purpled toes. The trees around him are bare, others still bloom with vibrant greens, but the sparsity does nothing to take away the beauty from the location. A few blankets and a dozen or so candles and it could almost be romantic.

He wonders what the odds are that he could have been born on the same day as the Herald of Andraste. He wonders whether people all over Thedas would be overjoyed at the simple fact that they could share a day with such an important icon, or if people would hate it. Some people despised being born on First Day or Summerday, and he wouldn’t blame them.

For the previous five namedays he had gotten pissed out of his skull and woken up several days later with little to no memory of it all. As if he wouldn’t age if he didn’t celebrate the year that had passed. No One, underneath the aches and pains, the cold in his joints and the crevices in his skin, should be thirty-one years old. He only has the memory of those years after all, the wolf had taken ten from him. The thought brings ashes to his mouth. He has missed so much.

The crunching of snow under leather interrupts him from his far right., and he doesn’t turn his head to look. It could be anyone, he thinks, though his chest hammers at itself with the thought that it may be Thom. He had left a note, and he had wanted the man to find him.

On Adeline’s nameday he had needed Thom, he had needed him there to pull him through the mess of emotions he had become. Years ago the very thought of needing someone like this would make him feel mortified and weak. But Thom made him feel like he mattered, like he was worth something. Piss on feeling weak, he would embrace anything to simply have Thom near him.

“Did you bring the wine?” No One said turning his head to face the intruder.

“I could go get some.” Thom gestures back up the path he had walked down. “It’s no bother.”

“No,” His hand twitches to reach for the other man, “stay.” He folds them in his lap and turns his head back, too afraid to see if Thom walks away. Instead he hears the snow beside him crumple beneath the weight of the other man’s hips, and his feet scuffle in the cold. He takes in the scenery for a little while longer, listening to the world around him and watching Thom’s heated breath spill out of him like a fog.

“How old are you?” Thom asks, pulling apart a fallen leaf with his gloved fingers. No One raises an eyebrow at the question, it’s an odd conversation starter. “You told me to ask you today.”

“Oh.” He pauses and chews his lower lip. No One could tell him, it’s just a number after all, but it’s a specific number leading to a specific time, and how many dark-haired boys were born in Val Royeaux at the same moment as him? “I’m…” He bites the inside of his cheek, he feels his throat swell and his palms begin to sweat. “It’s…”

Yesterday felt like a whole world away. A warm meal and a more than pleasant dining partner and his desire to spill his secrets had overwhelmed him. Thom had responded to him so absurdly that it had thrown his guard to one side, and he had let him pass the thick armoured walls he often hid behind. No One should never have told him to ask him again, it was a mistake. To let him know something like this, it’s too personal, it means too much. He feels as if the air means to choke him.

Thom offers him a smile when No One glances at him from the corner of his eye. It’s like coaxing a secret out of a child, he can see that he wants to tell him but something is holding him back, and Thom recognises that it’s a deep-rooted fear that stays his tongue. He pulls his glove off and offers his hand, palm upwards, letting No One take it at his own pace. His hand is warm from the fur within the glove, and he calms his flinch at No One’s own icy fingers.

“I’m…” He begins again, staring into the blue of Thom’s eyes, following the lines that ebb across his skin, and the fatigue which paints them. “I’m forty-one,” He whispers, his fingers squeezing hard and shaking in Thom’s own, “I’m forty-one, today.”

“It’s your nameday? _Today_?” Thom asks incredulously.

“Aye.”

“I, I have something for you.” He lets the smile break over his face and keeps a steady grip on No One’s hand. Thom pats his pockets quickly, searching for the little bag of stone dice. “They’re somewhere-” He digs harsher into his pockets, “-They’re- Maker’s balls they’re back in my room.” He huffs.

“’They’ doesn’t happen to be-” he glances down obtusely and meets Thom’s gaze again “- _that_ , does it?”

“No,” Thom laughs and jabs No One in the ribs, “ _pervert_.” He’s not sure if he was being serious or not, and what might have happened if he had said yes. Thom doesn’t think it’s such a horrible idea, sleeping with No One. Back when he had first met the man he could barely stand him, now he wanted to take him to bed and waken next to him in the morning.

Thom stands, pulling No One up with him with a quick tug. He watches him brush snow from his breeches and pull the wet fabric away from his skin. His second glove is pulled off and the matching pair are passed to No One, who takes them with a frown upon his brow.

“Your hands are cold.” Thom shrugs. He shoves his own hands into the pockets of his padded coat, and brightly huffs when No One threads their arms together as they walk. The blonde wears the gloves with an unexpected flutter in his chest; his hands _were_ cold after all.

Their steps fall together as they take the path back to Skyhold. The fortress is still high in its celebrations, loud singing and music echoes across the courtyards, laughter and unabashed joy fills the mountain air. It doesn’t sour No One as it had done before. Maybe it’s the warmth on his hands, or the smell of Thom’s hair, or the way their hips bump as they walk. Void, it might even be sobriety cleansing his mind.

Thom doesn’t seem to mind when they walk into the fortress with their arms entwined, nor when they slip through the grand hall to get to Thom’s chamber. Few people take any notice of them at all, too busy drinking or feasting or kissing other people.

“It’s not much,” Thom says when they step into his room, No One immediately moves to sprawl out on the bed. It gives Thom the opportunity to glance at No One’s backside; wet from the snow it appears that he doesn’t wear underthings. “I thought about getting you something else but I didn’t have the time.” He sits beside No One, trying to distract himself from the image pleasantly seared into his mind, and thumbs the satchel in his hands. He’s almost nervous, it was just a set of dice and he hadn’t been able to put a lot of thought into it either.

No One had once gotten him an expensive set of dwarven cards, according to Varric, and all he had to offer in return was something off of the back of a general merchant’s cart.

“Here.” He says, opening No One’s hand to place the small bag in his palm. The blonde sits up, shuffling his position so one leg is bent underneath him and he’s half facing Thom. He carefully pulls the string ties open, and tips the small cubes out. Iron shines out from behind his lips and the edges of his eye crinkle. He sniffs away what threatens to spill from his eyes and rolls the dice under his thumb.

“You figured out I liked dice?” No One has to clear his throat before he speaks. He hasn’t received a gift on his nameday in years, and he’s entirely overwhelmed by the small toy.

“You can’t play cards.” Thom laughs, and adds in a softer voice “I remember you said something about Dix Mille.”

“That was months ago.” He breathes, his voice beginning to fail his tongue.

“That doesn’t matter.”

“I haven’t had a gift like this since I was twenty-three.” He says with a breathless tone.

“Oh.” Thom says, feeling embarrassed for getting him something so out-dated and old.

“No, you misunderstand, Thom.” He grabs Thom’s wrist, “This is the first thing I’ve been given in eighteen years.” His voice tremors and he inhales and exhales carefully. No One has to turn away and scrub at his eyes. His throat swells and his head starts to ache, his breath staggers from his lungs and his eyes begin to sting.

“No One.” Thom whispers, taking the man’s hand. Eighteen years, he thinks, it’s almost a lifetime, and No One had been running since then. Eighteen years alone, paranoid, lost, and a thousand other things. Thom had struggled with the few he had taken as Blackwall; but eighteen years was something else entirely.

Everything about the other man began to fall into place. The lies, the defensive arguments, the quick anger, the fighting, the lack of anything to his person, the lack of a name. Eighteen years as a nameless man scared that the next person you talk to could turn you over to a guard. It’s torturous even thinking about the notion. The amount of years that had passed isn’t even the worst thing, Thom thinks, but the knowledge that No One would have continued endlessly, and eighteen years might not have been half of what he might have gone on to do.

“Fuck.” No One hisses and scrubs harder at his face. “I need a drink.” He offers Thom a watery smile and keeps the dice in hand.

In the war room Andrastopher stands with Goddard and his advisors all surrounding the large stump table. The air around them is taut and heavy, and it’s evident that there are some lingering problems with the new guest.

“If I may be excused, Inquisitor, I have-” Cullen starts, clearly the most uncomfortable with the Warden in the room.

“No.” Andrastopher states and ignores the frown passed his way. “I’ll be brief, I’m only here for a few reasons. We needn’t bring up the past lest you’re so inclined.” It’s a wild taunt, meant to show he had the upper-hand in whatever Cullen wanted to say or suggest. Their past together hadn’t yet been spoken of, the Commander had only told Goddard that he had made mistakes in the past and he regretted them deeply. In truth, Cullen couldn’t see his hands for the blood that matted them.

“Warden Commander Cousland, I’m assured you know about the issue we’ve been facing here in Skyhold.” Goddard states trying to direct the conversation back onto it’s true path.

“You have a werewolf.”

“Definitely?” Goddard feels relief flood his chest at Andrastopher’s words. To know that it wasn’t a demon was good news, and to know that it was a wolf of sorts meant that they were at least well informed enough to know what they were fighting.

“You have written accounts, eye witnesses, hunting locations, I’d say you have something of the sort.” Andrastopher pauses and picks up one of the spare map markers. “But your wolf is a shapeshifter, a mage or allied with one, not a true wolf in any aspect.”

“A shapeshifter? You’ve come to this conclusion how?” Leliana asks. She had heard about that specific element of magic but had yet to see it implemented. Regardless of what the Chantry said, the magic was still common amongst the Chasind and hedge mages across Thedas. Viola could be the mage manipulating the werewolf, she thinks, but keeps the knowledge to herself.

“I scouted the area around Skyhold unseen for a week or so, there are no tracks anywhere.” Andrastopher circles Skyhold on the map with his finger. Goddard realises that this makes up for the time difference in when they had both arrived at the mountain fortress. If Andrastopher had taken the time to wander the surrounding area it would allow Goddard and his companions to return without ever seeing the man.

“Snowfall has been heavy-” Cullen says.

“Werewolves are not light, they leave marks, unless it had moved on before I arrived there would be something.” Andrastopher places the marker down where he had picked it up from and frowns at the Commander.

“Perhaps-” Josephine starts.

“Morrigan is a shapeshifter, her son so recently arrived, perhaps he is the beast, or perhaps she is.” Andrastopher speaks without acknowledging the Ambassador’s word.

“They were both in Skyhold when another attack was reported.” Leliana said, scowling at the Warden for his rude interruption.

“Regardless, ask them, and don’t trust them.”

“You can’t come here and place blame without stone evidence. Morrigan is aiding the Inquisition and Kieran is just a boy.” Goddard defends the absentees. Morrigan has helped in locating Corypheus, and her son was all but ten years old and hardly a threat to any of them.

“Kieran is not-” Andrastopher begins.

“He is not _Connor_.”  Leliana interrupts, bringing up the murder of the young Lord. To his credit she doesn’t see him flinch, his face remains a trained neutral and his pose is the same sagging position it had always been.

“Is that the poisoned barb of your Spymaster or the gossip of a lay Sister?” Andrastopher proposes the question to nobody, but Goddard watches his advisor’s hackles all rise in his presence. He’s beginning to think he should have kept this more private.

“Desist.” Goddard snaps, his palms cracking loudly against the war table. “I will speak to Morrigan, but we need to know about the wolves you fought alongside in the Blight, and these personal matters will not be spoken of.” There’s a clear agreement amongst those in the room, but the Warden is the last to speak in turn, and hides his lies well.

At the tavern, No One proves he can down an ale faster than Thom, and all the emotions from before are slowly drowned in the honey flavoured liquid. It’s rowdier than usual, several drinks are spilled by spinning drunkards and flailing elbows, but the bard continues to sing and people chant and applaud to her voice every so often. He and Thom play Dix Mille with his new dice, and true to Thom’s prediction; the man has a natural luck with the stone objects.

The two men sit side by side at their small table, grinning and laughing within inches of each other. Their legs underneath bump and tangle as their shift in their seats, and No One hasn’t yet taken off Thom’s gloves. He’s far more comfortable in here with the loud drunkards and the ocean crowd. It’s more familiar to him than opening his chest in private and whispering his secrets to a man who’s more than just a friend to him.

They lose their table when they both go outside to piss. Thom is far more drunk than No One is; the blonde can hold his liquor far too well. He takes a glance at No One’s cock, his alcohol drenched mind telling him it’s a good idea. It’s no different from any other cock he’s seen, save for the bubbling scar that trails up from it and under his tunic. But Thom had seen that before. If No One notices his lingering eyes he doesn’t say anything about it.

The tavern continues its celebrations as the hours go by, the bard sings until another stepped up to take her place with a half sober band behind her. No One builds an unsteady bridge with The Iron Bull. It’s foundered entirely on Qunari drinks which make No One’s face screw up for the first few he has, but it’s something at the very least. An hour into the late afternoon and the tables are all pushed to the walls of the room, leaving the majority of the floor free for dancing. Thom and No One watch as the people slip around the edges of the room with little grace, laughing and grinning into their tankards. It’s incredibly hard not to get pulled into it all.

A woman grabs No One by his hands and drags him into the spinning group, and though he is loath to leave Thom’s side, the man gestures for him to go. It is his nameday, even if he refuses to tell anyone but Thom about it, and he deserves to celebrate it.

He watches as No One falls in line with the other dancers easily. His loose clothing jumping in tune with his body, creating wide arcs of fabric when he spins. Thom is almost jealous that he hadn’t joined in. He could be the one holding onto No One’s leather-bound hands, pulling them together and pressing their bodies close, twirling and spinning like it was second nature. Thom bites his tongue at the thought of interrupting him in his festivities. No One is enjoying himself, and after the revelation today Thom thinks he deserves a slice of something other than piercing fear.

As the song ends, the dancers all offer their bows and curtseys, and they’re allowed to mingle and drink before another song begins. No One grabs two tankards and staggers back to Thom’s side.

“Dance with me, Thom.” He grins, passing him a drink and slinging his arm around his shoulder. No One bumps their heads together and offers him an ale soaked iron smile. Thom’s not sure he can manage the footwork, but he doesn’t quite care.

With an empty tankard and a belly full, they dance with arms entwined, laughing and grinning with the rest of the dancers. It’s something Thom hasn’t done in years either. The music and the growing crowd force them closer together, No One’s arm around Thom’s neck and their alcohol flushed faces grinning parallel. If he could focus on anything in the spinning room he would kiss him. Tavern and celebrations be damned Thom would kiss him.

The song is over and bows are offered once more. He excuses himself for another piss, bloody drinks are going right through him, and he jumps when No One’s clings to his back and walks with him.

“Where did you learn to dance?” Thom asks, bracing one hand on the wall and fumbling to get his cock out. Their footwork had matched better than he could have expected, but No One was Orlesian, and Thom had only properly learnt how to dance when he had ventured to Orlais.

“Val Royeaux.” No One whispers. He leans against the building Thom is intent on pissing against, though far enough away that he won’t get wet. It must be almost morning with the pitch-black sky dotted with stars and an absent tinge on the horizon. “You need some help there?” He laughs as Thom barely manages to pull his breeches down before he empties himself.

“Bugger off.”

“Come on, I’ll walk you to your chambers.” No One lets his smile linger on his face, it’s been something that he hasn’t shaken all night. As childish as it seems, No One couldn’t think of a better nameday he’d ever had. Perhaps he was riding on the coattails of another’s nameday, but nonetheless it still belonged to him in a way. Thom puts his cock away and wipes his hands over his coat. His fingers catch the mountain chill and he bites his lip when he realises No One hasn’t taken the gloves off since he had given them to him.

No One bumps their shoulders as they walk. Thom pushes him back with a bit more force, and No One responds in kind. Both stumbling in the snow and shoving at each other with laughter bellowing out from their lungs. No One laughs out his forfeit breathlessly, his arms slinging around Thom’s shoulders in a pissed-up hug and he slaps him on the back in earnest. Both of the men are red faced and grinning with ale and joy.

“Thank you,” He whispers, his lips gracing the shell of Thom’s ear, “Thank you.” No One grips him tightly, even as they stagger to gain their balance. Thom angles his head away so that he can look at the other man, to try and figure out exactly what he’s thanking him for. So close, he thinks, he can smell the ale on his breath, feel the warmth on his face, and inch closer and he can taste the lyrium in his mouth.

It’s not as overpowering as he had thought it would be. His lips are jagged from scarring unlike any others he’s tasted, the taste of iron doesn’t prevail, nor does the taste of lyrium. It feels like barbs and sugar on his lips, like numbing sparks when the pressure is returned. There’s a whisper of his name across his mouth before the arms tighten and the lips against his own responds harder. They find their balance in the snow and Skyhold falls away around them.

They kiss once, twice, thrice, again and again their lips separate and fall back together. Thom feels fingers tangle in his hair; cupping the back of his head, and he grunts at the gentleness. One arm desperately pulls No One’s body tighter to his own, the other leaves his hand free to roam along the thin fabric covering his skin.

Thom has kissed men before; rarely. But nothing like this, nothing with months of emotion and speculation behind. No One kisses dirty. He holds no shame behind his lips and no fear in his mouth, for all the lies that have spilled from his throat his tongue is the most honest thing about him.

“No One.” Thom whispers chasing after his lips when he pulls away. It stuns him, it’s the first time anyone kissing him has ever called him that. Usually there’s a fake name, or it’s a one-time thing so it doesn’t matter in the end. But Thom is something else, he’s important beyond a doubt, and he can’t build something on nothing.

“You should get some rest, Thom.” He nods, and licks his lips. The kiss was extravagant by any means, overtly romantic kissing in the snow on a starry night.

“Come with me.”

“No.” He steps backwards and holds Thom’s hands in his own. No One still has Thom’s gloves across his fingers, and that means something too. He chews his lip thinking of a reason to explain why he can’t, when he used to fall so easily into bed with any other person.

“Sleep well, No One.” Thom squeezes No One’s hands before they separate. Both of them returning to their own rooms, and both of them glancing back at the other realising that everything was changing.

No One wonders when Thom became so important to him, when the man who he had met in a dirty cell in Val Royeaux had become one of the most vital things in his life. Nothing like this had ever happened to him before, not since he became afflicted with whatever ravaged his body with every full moon. Thinking back, nothing had happened like this before either.

He knows he could pursue something with Thom, a courtship or a relationship or some kind of beneficial agreement. But it wouldn’t be right. Thom wouldn’t know who he was being intimate with, and if No One was ever found Thom would suffer for it as well. It’s with a heavy heart that he thinks through his options.

Ending it is the most unpleasant. It would save them any heart ache in the future, and Thom wouldn’t be facing a noose just for associating with him. But he doesn’t want that. He wants Thom and he needs Thom. He could try to wait it out, to see if whatever they might feel now could dwindle. But that would still be a lie. No One chews his lip when he thinks he could just tell him. Spill all his secrets, or most of them, and hope to the void that Thom doesn’t run to tell the nearest guard. It’s a thought that once curdled his belly but the fear is lessened; he trusts Thom undoubtedly.

“Piss on it.” He hisses to himself, turning around and stomping across the courtyard. Thom’s room is easy to find when he’s not blind drunk, even in the dark with only his eyesight to help him navigate. He stands at the closed door trying to figure out exactly what he should say to Thom.

_I’m a chevalier._

_I deserted from the Orlesian army._

_I’m a wanted man._

_I’m the beast that’s ravaging Skyhold._

_I’m,_ he pauses in his thoughts, _I’m not the kind of man you think I am_.

It’s with an even heavier heart that No One lets cowardice run amok in his mind, and turns away from Thom’s room. A part of him hopes Thom will wake up the next morning and feel foolish about the kiss, and decide he doesn’t want to speak of it again. It would be the safest course of action, to blame it on the drink, and to leave the past where it lay.


	25. Revelations

No One watches the sun rise from atop the battlements, he has been sat there for hours enjoying one of the rarer nights when both moons had disappeared beyond his sights. His mind had replayed the kiss with Thom over and over. The action seared pleasantly into his memory, the taste of him, the smell of him, the feel of him. He realises it’s not too late to turn back; to deny his lust for the man. But he convinces himself that he can stop, for the first time in a long time, he can stop even for something as simple as this.

Val Royeaux was supposed to be his confession, and Thom had pulled him out of that. So, what was a little romance when his time was already terminal. It would end in agony, perhaps, but there was little to say he wouldn’t cherish every moment he got with Thom. That man was something else, No One couldn’t quite decide what it was. But it was something so incredible that he knew words could scarce describe him.

Months ago, when he had first arrived at Skyhold, he had intended to sleep with Thom after going for drinks. He wasn’t any more special than any of the others he would have had sex with; but times had changed. Thom was undoubtedly more than them, and it would be cruel to burden Thom with himself, but No One could admit he was that desperate and selfish that he could do so.

One day maybe he’ll tell him exactly who he is. _Lord Baroulx of Val Royeaux_ , or just _Ser Baroulx_ , in the Academie they would call him _Dame_ -

Footsteps stop behind him, pulling him from his thoughts. The guardsmen and soldiers tend to walk straight passed him, they’ve no need to stop to speak to a wanderer on the ramparts. It’s only a quick glance but it’s odd to see the Warden Commander with his hair down, he looks less threatening with dark hair halfway to grey fluttering in the wind. There’s little to say about the flatness of his face and the dull expression that’s painted on his skin.

“Are you always up this early?” No One grunts and turns back to his brightening view. He has no patience for a man who holds his leash, though the Piss Merchant was something else entirely. Memories of Viola forcing him over the edges prickle his gut, he keeps his feet firmly planted and his arms tense.

“Yes. Have you thought about my offer?” He says pointing at the hounds at his feet so they would lay down. They’re remarkably well behaved, and to have three mabaris spoke well of a man.

“Of becoming a Warden? I told you; it depends on Thom.”

“I can imagine.” He pauses and leans out over the ramparts to get a look at the view below him, counting the guards on either side of the gatehouse. “I saw you two last night, I also saw you go back and forth across the courtyard.”

“What do you want from me?” No One barks turning to frown at the man. This isn’t friendly chatter no matter how friendly the Warden is trying to look. He’s not so green in the Grand Game as to misinterpret a relaxed outfit as a friendly disposition. 

“I recruit for the Wardens on the odd occasion-”

“And I’ve answered that call already.” No One turns back towards the view, his morning spoiling in Andrastopher’s presence.

“Perhaps I’d like to know what a dishonoured chevalier is doing in this fortress, which belongs to the man who has extremely close ties to the Emperor of Orlais,” Andrastopher leans closer, “perhaps I’m wondering exactly how the chevaliers let someone go, or perhaps I’m just curious about the man with four different names.”

“ _Perhaps-_ ” he mocks “-you got your answer last night.”

“You would risk a hanging to be with him?”

“Don’t be so high and mighty, Warden Commander, we all know you’ve been fucking the man who tried to kill you for the last decade.”

“At least I knew who he was.” Andrastoper’s voice doesn’t waver in the slightest against his barbed tongue. No One bites into his own, it’s like the man had read his mind and had turned his own thoughts into a dagger and plunged it into his gut. “In fact, I knew exactly who he was and what he intended the first time I met him. The only reason I let him live was to show that bastard Howe that I would take everything from him.”

“And here I thought Wardens might be noble, you truly are a gang of thieves and cunts aren’t you?”

“You would know all about nobility.”

“Go piss up someone else’s back.” No One grunts, bearing his teeth at the other man. Andrastopher has already seen him fight, and he has no qualms in beating him into the ground if he needs to. Though it’s not hard to tell when he’s so easily outnumbered. Three dogs in the close vicinity; he’s had worse odds and ended up mostly unscathed.

“Thom Rainier won’t be journeying with me.” He says, ignoring the obvious distaste dripping from No One, though cataloguing the odd accessory in his mouth. “I assume you won’t be either, so I’ve no reason to keep your identity hidden any longer.” He offers a nod and starts to turn away.

“What do you want?” No One sighs. He has played this game before, though in different circumstances. The last time he had ended up joining an assassin’s guild masquerading as a dozen other things.

“I want you to watch someone.” He states plainly, as if he was ordering a drink and not something so possibly sinister.

“Done.”

“His name is Kieran, the Orlesian liaison’s son. He has a Warden’s insignia on his chest, and is often in the gardens.”

“A child?” No One balks.

“Everyone so loves to remind me that children are the peak of innocence, as if it is corruption denied by age.” Andrastopher whistles to his mabaris and takes a step forward before turning back to face him. “Don’t kill him, it’s vital he remains alive.” No One senses it’s a command that isn’t born from kindness, but doesn’t get the chance to ask him when the Warden has already left.

No One runs his hands through his hair and makes the journey to the gardens. He had spent a lot of time here when he first arrived in the mountain fortress, the chantry uniform he had worn wasn’t exactly fake. He had taken vows as a brother and played for a time at that sort of life, but it wasn’t the one he was promised by Thom, and he had felt something telling him to take up the offer. Still, it had been nice, as fruitless as it would have ended up.

He slips Thom’s gloves back over his fingers as a comfort. Kieran isn’t there, but No One remains as the minutes tick by. He wonders why the Warden Commander wanted him watched, it doesn’t take him long to jump to the conclusion the boy may be his. A Grey Warden’s token, dark hair, dark eyes, and pale skin; it makes sense. It could just be the boy’s magic, or because he’s Chasind. No One picks at the curls in his druffalo wool, a Warden’s bastard or not he doesn’t really have a choice in the matter.

Andrastopher’s bitter tone didn’t do anything to help the situation. If Kieran was his son, why was he so boldly aggressive about it? No One takes off his gloves and chews his nails absentmindedly, eavesdropping on conversations carried by the crowds that filtered in and out of the garden. A nobleman caught with a kitchen boy, an Arl was desperately without coin. His ears perk up when he hears Orlesian coming from further away, something about Gaspard’s soon to be intended. Apparently, the old bastard has it down to two women, but he’s keeping the crowds in suspense, No One rolls his eyes at the information. No doubt they’re young pretty twenty-somethings whose fathers have other interests in mind.

Thom appears at a more reasonable time in the day to be awake, a little worse for wear with a clear hangover upon his face. He claps a hand over No One’s shoulder and sits down next to him. Everything had changed since last night, and No One’s more afraid to approach the subject than almost anything else right now. He feels a shiver of embarrassment at almost bursting into Thom’s chambers last night, and he’s thankful he walked away.

“Varric told me you’d come through here.” Thom says, rubbing his eyes and sighing.

“The garden’s a nice place, yes?” No one shrugs. He finds himself lost for words, and doesn’t want to fill the empty air with uncouth sayings or foul jokes. “Do you want your gloves back?” He pulls at the leather across his fingers; feeling the chill grappling at his wrist. No One had slipped them back on to stop him from biting his nails.

“Keep them.” Silence begins to swim around them, unsettling No One in a way it hasn’t done before. He finds himself tapping his foot and almost begging for Kieran to come along as a healthy distraction. “Last night,” Thom starts.

“Thom.” He almost begs.

“Was nice. We should do that again some time.” Thom offers him a simpering smile. “Maybe with less alcohol.” His lips fall from their upturned state at No One’s expression.  His dark eyebrows create a divot between them, and he’s chewing the inside of his cheek hard enough to hollow it out. “Oh. Now I feel like a bit of a tit.”

No one stares at him, dejected and hungover, and his chest thumps heavily. He tries to convince himself it’s worth the heartache now instead of later, and the Warden Commander’s words filter through his head like the waves on the Storm Coast.

“Give me some time, Thom, I have to…” No One trails off and heaves out a sigh, running his hands through his hair. How much time does he need? Hours? Days? Months? Years? How long could he put this off knowing that someone knew his secrets. “Meet me on the ramparts tonight? I need you to know some things first, if you’re serious about this.” He says, grabbing Thom’s hand in his own and kissing his gloved knuckles. “If I don’t see you, we can forget any of this happened.”

Thom stands with a nod, squeezing No One’s hand and walking away. It’s odd and incredibly unnerving. Thom knows the other man is a deserter, and perhaps that could cause such shame to surface in a wave of fear. But with the murder, and the eighteen years, he’s not quite sure he could imagine a scenario that would put him in that position. Could he have run from the Callier crime for so long? Would guilt have consumed him as it had done to No One? It doesn’t bear thinking about with an agonising throb in his head.

Varric waves him over when he passes through the grand hall, offering him a chair and some of his plate. Thom pours himself half a tankard of water and nurses it like warm ale. His head is still spinning, from the drink still swelling his brain and from No One’s words. The hall is mostly empty save for the servants cleaning away yesterday’s celebrations and the morning meals.

“You were right about the dice.” Thom mumbles, trying to take his mind away from certain things. No One had played spectacularly with the small toy, and had been thrilled at receiving such a thing. Odd to think it was all only a few hours ago.

“I always am.” Varric grins. He sets aside his letters and pushes the food closer to Thom, fishing for more information on the subject.

“About Hawke…” Thom starts, trailing off and chewing on a slice of buttered black bread.

“I’ve got a whole book about Hawke, Hero, I want to talk about you and No One.” Varric says, leaning in eagerly with a wider grin on his lips. There were certain things he had heard in the early hours of the morning, certain things which he was eager to have confirmed.

“Hawke stayed with the mage who destroyed Kirkwall’s chantry, didn’t he?” He asks, ignoring Varric’s comment. He can’t ask him outright what he wants to know, but he knows the dwarf is smart enough to put the connections together. Thom isn’t as good a man as Hawke was, he can’t say he’s ever single-handedly saved an entire city, but they were both just men; neither of them other-worldly.

“I’m not at liberty to say, Hawke could be anywhere by now.” Varric says with a practiced tongue.

“I’m not Cassandra.”

“Fine.” Varric huffs, it’s not as if people didn’t know the basics of it all anyway. “He stayed with Anders, against all common sense. Set him up for a year with our favourite visiting Warden Commander, before they started a new life with new names somewhere near somewhere else. Why?”

“How did he know to forgive him?” Thom bites the bolt and asks what he needs to know. Whatever No One had done, whether it was just the murders and the desertion or a thousand other crimes it could scarce be worse than sparking an entire war. He hoped. Thom wanted to help him wade through whatever was drowning him, he couldn’t offer him absolution, be he could grant him the opportunity of a revelation. “How did he forgive him?”

“I don’t think he ever did.” Varric shuffles some papers and shrugs, feeling as if he has to explain more at Thom’s downtrodden expression. “Hawke made his own share of mistakes in Kirkwall, some people blame him outright for the mess. But through everything Anders remained loyal to him.”

“But he-”

“Blew up the chantry, yes, but Hawke doesn’t have many allies. The Templars hate him because he’s a mage, the free mages hate him because he allied with the Templars, and the loyal mages hate him because he let Anders live.”

“Everyone else?” Thom snorts.

“Everyone else either doesn’t care, or can be convinced to hate him quickly enough. He’s not the easiest man to get along with.”

“So, he doesn’t have anyone?”

“Blondie loves him more than his damned cats, and he has some family here and there.” Varric remains vague on it all. Hawke did still have his uncle and brother in the Free Marches, but ever so recently he had acquired children of his own, and Varric knew in a roundabout way that’s why he had survived the Fade and Loghain had not. There were other reasons undoubtedly, but the Inquisitor had a weak spot for families; more so after his son had died.

“Thanks, Varric.” Thom stuffs a few small fruits into his mouth and takes his leave. The circumstances are surprisingly similar; change your name and run away from your problems. Did every troubled man in Thedas do the same? Apparently, it was the only option available, for kings and commoners alike.

No One manages to chew through his nails, and bite them far enough that the tips of his fingers crack and bleed. The gloves push against the skin awkwardly when he puts them back on, and he balls up his fists to relax the pain. He had half a day to come up with an explanation for Thom, the man would be expecting something if he turned up later, but No One’s not quite sure what he wants to tell him. Telling him everything would be a mistake, there’s too much to speak of regardless. Some things like Adeline, would be out of bounds, if other people knew of her parentage it would ruin more lives than his own.

Sometime after midday, Kieran surfaces with a tome in hand and his mother not far behind. They don’t make any effort to conceal themselves, but he watches as Morrigan slips into the Grand Game and carefully scans the garden crowd. She doesn’t look afraid, No One decides, it’s more as if she’s daring someone to play against her. She’s bold in her actions, a usual trait for one who had never been in a circle.

She and Kieran read through the old tome, she points out certain passages and makes sure he takes them in properly. It’s all very loving, and it reminds him of the years he has lost with his own child. No One scrubs his face and tilts his head back, looking up to one side of the second level of the gardens. He scowls at the Warden Commander who doesn’t even glance at him. Was this all a play, was he watching No One whilst he watched Kieran? _Bollocks_.

“Brother Eustace.” A Sister says and offers him a warming smile. “May I sit?” No One waves at the space beside him on the bench, and sits up with more grace.

“Sister Nelda.” He regards her kindly, turning his body toward her and keeping Kieran just in the corner of his vision.

“We haven’t seen you in a while.” She folds her hands in her lap, she almost looks sad at her own words. “I know you’ve a troubled past, but we did enjoy having you in the chantry. Not just us, you have a way with those who have suffered misfortune. Men like you are needed now more than ever.”

“The world may be better off without men like me.”

“You had begun to atone, and those are the men we need.” She offers him another smile, and grasps his hand in her own. “Would you consider retaking your vows, Brother Eustace?”

“Thank you, Sister Nelda, but I cannot be forgiven unless I confess, and if I confess I will not be forgiven.” No One said; as obtuse and vague as he always had been. It swells his throat as his tongue speaks unfortunate truths. He feels as if he is held aloft by two nooses, and should one fall away he would swing freely, hanging by whatever rope he had bound himself with.

“The Maker can forgive even the most heinous of crimes, and may act in the bodies of man to do the same.” She sends him another smile, sadder this time, and watches how her words wash over the man. There is forgiveness in the farthest reaches of the world, in the darkened corners of damp caves, and in the white light in the centre of burning heat. There is forgiveness in the Maker, and His forgiveness in man, perhaps even forgiveness in Thom.

That’s who Thom is to him. Poetic as it may be but Thom is the sole light burning away the darkened fog, he is but a spark, but an ember, but he is there. It gives No One an option, he can smother the flames and hide within the familiar dark, or he can breathe new life into an offered hand and risk becoming burnt.

“You too have a way with those who suffer, Sister Nelda.” He returns the smile, and offers faithful pleasantries when she takes her leave. No One slouches on the bench once more, drumming his fingers to feel the leather at the tips. Sister Nelda has always been kind to him, offering him a gentle touch when some of the others would not. She had a peace with the world that seemed to transcend all others, and it was putrid to be jealous of her. Wise words often fell from her lips, and No One couldn’t be more thankful.

The last time he had worn gloves was to cover the moonlit burns which had blistered his skin, and now he would take off Thom’s to risk being burnt again in a whole new way.

No One decides to leave when he sees the Inquisitor stroll into the garden, not wishing to stick around the icon. His intrigue stops him from leaving, and he stands under the stone balcony and keeps his eyes trained on Trevelyan. Odd that he’s speaking to both Morrigan and Kieran, and how insulted they both look. He can’t hear their words, he’s too far away, but it’s not too far of a throw to think it has something to do with the Warden Commander.

There is more to this than No One knows, but it is a problem for another day. He has other things which take priority, Thom takes priority.

There’s still food about when he takes the quickest route through the grand hall. No One grabs a few peaches and a bottle of wine without drawing too much notice, and sits on the ledge of the upper courtyard; watching the comings and goings of those beneath him. He drinks the wine straight from the bottle, and bites his way through two peaches, enjoying the sun on his back. Looking at him you’d think he was at peace, but his mind turns with all the mistakes he has made in his past.

Thom doesn’t need to know everything, not right now at any rate. No One promises himself to tell him about his status as a soldier, it stands as one of the only things that Thom could be punished for; aiding and abetting a wanted criminal. He hadn’t particularly done anything of the sort, as far as No One knew; Thom didn’t know anything about his desertion status. But people in Skyhold knew him as a friend of Thom’s, and that would be enough for Orlais.

He spots Caldwell on his rounds, delivering letters and parcels, taking down messages to add to his list of jobs. The young red-head offers him a slight wave when he spots him, his face brightening when No One returns it with a smile. He ought to apologise to him, to tell him he was simply caught off guard when they had last spoke.

It’s not the same as with Thom, but he believes he could start to reach out to people in Skyhold. After so many months only one person had managed to figure out what he was, granted he had done it abominably quickly, but he was one out of thousands. In time Caldwell could become one of No One’s friends if he were so inclined. So to could the Qunari and the Stark from before, he’d taken a liking to Tethras, and even The Iron Bull had started to wear him down.

The idea brings a nervous smile to his lips. No One could definitely stay here. All it would take was the dreaded confession and Thom’s acceptance, it wouldn’t be worth it without him after all.

No One avoids the battlements as the hours slither by. He returns to the gardens to continue his watch over Kieran, still pondering why he’s been asked to do it, and enjoys the rumours that pass from one set of lungs to another. The young boy doesn’t do anything out of the ordinary and Cousland had disappeared from the balcony above.

When the sun starts to climb beyond the mountain tops No One resigns himself the long walk to the ramparts. He takes his steps slow and clumps snow together in his hands. There’s a plume of smoke from his home, and he knows Thom is waiting for him there. He swallows the throb in his throat and counts his steps until he can see Thom sitting by the fire, he watches as he stands from the crate he’s sitting on. No One’s not sure who looks more nervous.

“Thom.” No One says. He feels as if he’s being scolded by the same hand that’s offering to help him up, it twists in his gut so awkwardly that he’s almost lost for words. “I didn’t think you’d come.” It’s a lie, and No One internally berates himself for it. He had hoped that Thom would have stayed away, but a larger part of him hoped that he would be there to see him on the ramparts.

No One prods at the fire, keeping the druffalo wool carefully wrapped around himself so as to stave off the moonlight. He’s not cold, but he thanks the other man when he throws another log onto the fire.

“I value your friendship, indefinitely, Thom.” He starts. “But I am…” His voice trails off, unsure of what to say, what is he exactly? “I am not the kind of man you think I am.” No One scrubs the back of his neck, bloody coward, he knows he’s being far too vague. But Thom is patient, and sits there with his eagle-like stare and a slump in his frame.

“You don’t know what kind of man I think you are.” He says gently after a pause that No One couldn’t fill.

“Enlighten me?” His voice is tinged with hope, a desperation for even a hint of redemption.

“I think you’re confounding, and impossibly infuriating.” No One huffs at Thom’s words, they’re hardly the most complimentary but he’s glad they’re not too insulting. “But I think you’re a good man, deep down there’s good underneath whatever you’re hiding from.” Oh.

“I’m a chevalier.” No One states. It takes his mind a moment to catch up to his tongue, and he stuns himself at how simply the words fell from his lips. Before it was gut-wrenching fear, or limb-crushing agony, but with Thom it’s nothing. It’s like the word doesn’t matter, and the vile drippings it has always been laced with have come clean in Thom’s presence.

Dozens of things fall into place in Thom’s mind. Almost everything he knows about No One starts to make sense; how well he lies is because he had once played the Grand Game, the hatred of nobility is the fear of being noticed, the lies upon lies weaving a blanket of safety to drown in. His obvious inclinations towards Elven things made more sense if he was one of the people who once abused them. The proper bows, the agile dancing, the taste for whiskey, even _bastard’s_ _honour_ is a saying often used by the nobility of Orlais. Thom internally scoffs at his thoughts; No One is- No One _was_ a chevalier. Why it had taken him so long to figure it out, he doesn’t know.

For all his sprinting thoughts, there’s one that stands out amongst them. No One had told him, No One had trusted him enough to pass him the noose around his neck, and to trust that he wouldn’t push the floor out from under him.

“I deserted, officially, when I was twenty-three.” No One can’t stop the words from slipping off his tongue. “But I was already gone at twenty-one. I didn’t care about the order, I didn’t care about Orlais. I only cared about the boy whose father I beheaded in the spirit of drunken celebrations.”

“What?” Thom asks, inching closer with a need that isn’t quite curiosity.

“Chevaliers get drunk and ride into the alienage when they graduate from the Academie. It’s a cruel test of honour and pride; to kill an elf just to prove you’re worthy of a dyed feather.” He sighs. No One slumps in his chair, almost exhausted from the weight of his words. “Sometimes they do worse things.”

It’s not a pleasant memory that slinks to the front of his mind. Emile standing there with a bloodied satchel against his waist; he had described it as a mercy before they had ridden into the alienage. No One had caused a greater scar than what Emile had, but he’s not sure whether there had been worse than him on that day. Marc had been an utter bastard, but No One had left a wave in his wake that had destroyed the lives of dozens.

“I spent over two years begging for his forgiveness; seven-hundred and seventy-one days. Every day I would journey into the alienage, and every day he would deny me. I offered him whole estates, a lordship, more coins than he could comprehend.” No One explained.

“But he wanted his father back.”

“And I couldn’t give him that.” No One’s words trail off into the evening. He feels Thom shift beside him, and watches his hand get clasped within Thom’s own. There’s a sympathetic smile under his beard, and honesty splayed neatly across his face. A hand reaches up to wipe at his cheek, and only then does No One feel the swelling in his throat and the tightness in his chest. Tears slip from him, and he doesn’t bother to hide them. He can’t pinpoint exactly what he’s feeling welling in his lungs. Whether it’s guilt, relief, fear, exhaustion, or a mix of all four and more.

No One knows he can’t ask Thom for forgiveness, nor would he expend so much effort in doing so. It remains as one of the things that he will never receive. But he finds a kindness in Thom’s eyes, a respectable empathy, and something else entirely.

“Is he…” Thom says, unable to figure out how to phrase his words. He only half remembers No One’s story from back in Val Royeaux, and he can only hope his memory has twisted them into something else.

“Dead? That’s why I left.” No One takes back his hand and wipes away the wetness across his cheeks. “There was a scuffle, in the alienage, three chevaliers against a group of elves in tunics.”

“You fought the elves?”

“I fought _with_ them. I killed one of the chevaliers, another left to get help and the other stayed behind to duel me.”

“What happened?”

“I lost, and one of the elves stepped in and ran a sword through her back before she could kill me.” No One picks nervously at the underside of his chin, listening to the bristles scratching against the leather. “She gave me her mule to escape on, her name was Dana. Before you ask; she was executed for helping me. I ran the mule to death too.”

“I’m sorry.” Thom is more than sincere in his words, and he has to restrain his need to physically comfort the man. He wants to make sure No One knows he’s there for him, and that he truly appreciates the conversation they’re having now. It’s monumental, after all these months, it’s a step so large that it shudders in Thom’s chest.

“So am I.” No One says with a lift of his shoulders. “I can understand if you don’t want to, I mean, if you don’t,” He sighs again and chuckles nervously, “if you don’t want me, in any capacity.” It’s an easy-out he’s offering, and he’s desperately torn over whether or not he wants Thom to take it. It’s the wiser choice to do so, but he’s too weak to pull himself away from the core that Thom has become.

“I _do_ want you.” Thom states, he turns fully to face away from the fire and to concentrate wholly on the other man. His words make him giddy and nervous. He does want him, honestly and truly, regardless of any reservations he had before he wants No One. “But I know that living alone with these lies, it eats away at you.” He was still the same man Thom knew from before, and his past? Thom knew he was atoning for that. No noble could abandon everything as he had unless he was guilt addled and grief stricken.

“I’m telling you, aren’t I?” No One laughs.

“Not all of it.” Thom leans closer, placing a hand on No One’s knee and squeezing, “And I know you’re not ready to.”

“I might never be ready to. But being… _that_ kind of soldier, that’s the only thing that can hurt _you_ , Thom. With your Herald giving Gaspard the throne-”

“What were you doing in Val Royeaux?” Thom stops him from speaking. Memories are threading together in his mind, things he should have pieced together before but now they shine in a whole new light.

“I wanted to see my sister; I heard whispers about an engagement to a mysterious suitor.” He says. _Sister_ falls from his lips effortlessly; he should have said daughter. Thom doesn’t know her name, he doesn’t know anything about Adeline, he can’t ever know. But he could believe No One’s child and No One’s sister were entirely different people. Or, he thinks, is that another lie he’ll struggle to keep up with.

“And?” Thom urges him on, knowing that there was more to it all. Val Royeaux is one of the worst places a chevalier deserter could be; the market place often has the feathered soldiers trooping their colours, and with Gaspard now warming the Orlesian throne they were around more than ever.

“My brothers, both chevaliers, would be honour bound to arrest me.” No One points up two fingers and wiggles them, still locked in Thom’s gloves.

“You went there to die.” Thom whispers. It’s almost parallel to his own journey, and he feels a familiar exhaustion curl around his chest. It adds a separate tint to the fighting and the taunting, sooner or later he would have had ended up with a blade in his gut, and No One might not have been so perturbed about it.

“And in my cell, I saw a man, only he was just a few steps ahead of me, and he offered me a better life, as a better man.” No One takes both of Thom’s hands in his own, and when he shifts on his seat to face him their knees hit against each other. “He made me feel like I was… Like I was _someone_.”

Thom chuckles breathily, a strange sense of prideful relief swelling in his gut. This was the beginning of what he had originally set out to do, it was the beginning of something else entirely but he couldn’t fault himself. No One was astonishing. The depth he held was well hidden by the grime and crudity he once wore, but as that fell away so did everything else.

No One was handsome, the kind of man you start to enjoy looking at the more you do it, and Thom _had_ been looking. He seems softer by the fireside at night, and he can’t tell whether it’s the tautness that has slipped from his shoulders or the orange glow across his skin. Thom knows he shouldn’t be thinking about how attractive No One is, not at this moment. He has to think about what the blonde had told him, and how it would affect himself.

Being a deserter was criminal enough. The best a man could hope for was a flogging, the worst was ultimately death however it came about. But chevaliers were always hanged. A point of pride to show others what happened to deserters, it was rare to see a common Orlesian soldier be charged with desertion and keep his life intact, an impossible feat for a chevalier.

He tries to imagine it; No One in the blues and golds of chevalier armour, but he can’t see it. Thom wonders what he used to look like all those years ago. Did he have those scars? Did he always keep his hair long? He doesn’t know if it’s a good thing that he can’t see him in the uniform. Because Thom can’t tell if it’s a lie, yet he trusts him almost undoubtedly. This isn’t exactly the kind of thing one would lie about.

“You’re a nobleman.” Thom says, almost posing it as a question.

“First born son.” No One enunciates each word with a bite.

“Heirs aren’t usually chevaliers-” Thom catches No One wince at the word and thinks to never called him that again “-are they?”

“I’m not the heir.” No One says, and huffs with a smile across his lips, “not anymore, and I’m sure as the void that I never will be again. But I’m glad for that.” He lets go of Thom’s hands, letting them fall between his open thighs as he leans back, his smile growing under the blackened roots of his moustache. “You think Cabot still has the tavern open? Mulled wine would do me some good.” Thom has to laugh at the other man, warmth spreading across his chest at how easily he has returned to normal.

He knows he’ll have to think about things, about the words that have been shared tonight. But mulled wine doesn’t sound too bad.

Thom finds himself stewing over No One’s revelation when they’ve both retired for the evening. It seems to have a larger impact the more he thinks about it. Chevalier; it’s a heavy burden to bear and sharing the load doesn’t make it lighter. But the trust that No One must hold for him must be innumerable, and that compliment, whilst it doesn’t outweigh the whole situation, was remarkable in itself.

He lies in bed with his fingers laced together over his gut, his thumbs twiddling and circling themselves idly. Thom’s not entirely sure he’s truly taken the information in. No One had opted to die, and Thom in some bizarre way had convinced him out of it. He remembers the cackling laugh when he had suggested No One come to Skyhold, he remembers the twist in his gut when he thought the other man was bound for the noose, and he remembers the spear through his chest when he first saw him within the mountain fortress.

For the first time since he had taken Blackwall’s name he truly began to feel something that the Warden must have felt. Knowing that he had helped another like himself, selflessly and without falsities, and had done so with nothing to gain. Thom feels his lips turn up into a smile, there was something to gain, but he couldn’t blame that on his actions so far. His feelings for the man still flourished, and he convinces himself that even if he hadn’t been concentrated on helping him they would have done so anyway.

The weight of No One’s words doesn’t hit him until he lies in his home with only a low lamp light to keep him company. It manifests as ropes binding his lungs, shackles in his throat, and fingers around his heart. He had told Thom so much; he realises it would be enough to figure out who he truly was. A nameday, his siblings, his age, his birthplace. It would narrow a search down by eliminating others by the thousand.

But he had told _Thom_. A man who wouldn’t betray him for his own gain, a man who never truly suffered at gilded Orlesian hands, and a man who was whole-heartedly good. His heart was at ease with the knowledge, but his mind and memory pincered him. The Piss Merchant corralled him into the Family, and Andrastopher has coerced him into stalking a child. He had no idea what Thom could do with what he now knew. No One hoped he wouldn’t particularly do anything, and he held onto his faith vigorously.

Still, he blew out the lamp and sat steady into the night; listening to the mountain fortress’ song. If guards were on their way to his little nook he would hear them, he would see the lit torches they carried, and most of all he would escape them.

No One won’t be able to sleep tonight, and he’s blessed for that. His dreams had been progressing since he had arrived in Skyhold, sometimes he would suffer differently, he would see different faces and explore different areas. New details had been revealed, and No One wanted to chase them. But he was afraid.

Tonight he was more afraid than ever. Fearful of seeing Thom in his dreams wherever he might appear. Would he be hunting with the chevaliers, or would he be with the elves, or would he just be _there_ ; judging mercilessly. But No One knew that wasn’t like Thom, yet still he was afraid. He wondered if it would be Thom’s betrayal that would hurt him most, because he had always expected something of the sort. But as he thinks about it, Thom’s scorn becomes one of the worst things he can imagine, and he’s not quite sure if he could survive being on the wrong end of that.

No One periodically pulls back the flapping door of his home; it reveals nothing but the regular changing of the guard. He reads more through his books, skimming through most of it that hadn’t seemed useful. This particular version of _The History of Grey Wardens in Ferelden_ had an added section about the fifth blight, and its notable hero; one Warden Commander Cousland. Due to the sellable and public nature of the book it couldn’t give him any ammunition against Andrastopher. But it would give him an insight.

It reads plainly, with the drawl of a well-educated scholar, about what Andrastopher had achieved in such a short amount of time. Surviving a massacre; twice, helping the Templars to secure an overrun circle, saving a small village plagued by demons, crowning _two_ monarchs, and convincing rabid werewolves to fight alongside him to ensure the blight was ended. His title of the Hero of Ferelden suited his deeds. Yet notably well placed at the end was Andrastopher’s miraculous survival, all previous Wardens had died to slay the archdemon, but no Warden deaths were recorded save one. That man succumbing instantly to wounds consistent with a very lengthy fall.

The knowledge doesn’t ease No One’s curiosity of the man, nor does it satiate his desperation to find anything about his affliction. He does find something within the text though. The werewolves Andrastopher had conscripted came from the Brecilian Forest, some eventually leaving the woodland and finding refuge in the Korcari Wilds, and _that_ is where No One had fallen all those years ago. But it is not the most important fact he learns; rather that the curse was brought about by the Dalish. A tongue that he apparently knew well.

No One knows he can’t approach Andrastopher on the subject, the man had a keen eye and a wide pool of knowledge. Not to mention the leash he already held. If No One added another to his grasp he would never be free of the man, and perhaps this would be the reason for the Warden Commander to reveal his sins.

He chews his lip readily at the thought; two people knew he was a chevalier. The first was involuntary, and the second had been his own choice. But he can’t help but wonder if he had only told Thom because someone else had already rattled him. It’s not true, he knows deep down that he had told the man because he trusted him beyond a doubt, yet the feeling remains.

When the sun rises the next day, No One is still lying between the pillows. He has read the same page at least four times already; mindlessly skimming the words and not truly taking them in. _The Complete Dalish Lexicon; 9:33_ , which apparently isn’t complete at all and favours some clans over others, is sitting to one side. He hasn’t the courage to touch it. As if the words written in Dalish will make sense to him without the Trade Tongue beside it. Which would mean what exactly? No One doesn’t know. If the affliction was Dalish it would be beyond to think it could have given him a depth of understanding for their language.

However, with the state of the world now rife with war and uncontrolled magic, would it be so unimaginable to think that could have happened? No One kicks the book away, his thoughts soiling as he reads the same page again.

He starts to crawl from his home multiple times only to think better of it and remain indoors. Usually he would eat at the tavern, with or without Thom, and would spend half of his morning in there. His routine would change in order to seek out Kieran, which meant he would be spending the majority of his time in the garden. No One couldn’t help but wonder if Thom would seek him out, or he would have to search for the man himself, and he doesn’t quite know if he wants either to happen. After all, No One isn’t just no one to him anymore, he’s a chevalier; a man titled as Ser. Nonetheless he berates himself for sulking as a child would, and makes a lengthy journey to the gardens. Taking his time to avoid any routes that Thom might take to see him. No One is still afraid of the consequences of last night.

The gardens remain lovely for this time of winter, the Inquisitor has allowed mages to tend to the plants to ensure they’re all healthy and are able to supply Skyhold with not only medicinal plants but vegetation in a small number. It wouldn’t be enough to feed the entire fortress, but if they were being starved out it would serve well as rations for the majority of them. The mountain castle is undeniably incredible; with the fertile soil and the vast amount of fresh water it’s almost miraculous. No One was glad to have called a little bit of it his home.

Clouds above have made the attempt at snowing, most of it falling at random intervals and forcing the Orlesians to gather under the balcony for shelter. It’s here that No One finds himself drawn to eavesdropping on the nobles’ conversations. Odd as it is to hear his native tongue surrounding him, he finds comfort in the language. Even if most of the gossip is about Lady Argene’s latest ball and her travesty of a gown.

It’s only at the hushed whisper of his own surname that perks up his full attention. Nobody knew that, not a single person in Skyhold knew his true name and yet it is on the lips of gossipers. He grinds his teeth and locks his jaw in place, burning away all of the lingering voices to simply focus on those two. He turns his body and rests his arm on the top of the bench, angling himself to hear the conversation better.

“-is not coming to Skyhold.” One said, his voice high and nasally, his mask only managing to dull the whining voice.

“I heard it is true. Do you not trust me?” The other replied, his hands moving with his words.

“Do not insult me with _that_ , perhaps he travels for our dear Emperor?”

“Why send a _Baroulx_? I’m certain His Imperial Majesty has better allies than those knock-jawed upstarts.” No One keeps his face calm at the insult, their title had been a gift given to them centuries ago and they didn’t own any major land like all the other Dukes did. That wasn’t to say their estates were massive looming things; Dukedom came with benefits after all.

“They were close in the Academie.” The man leans in with a grin half hidden under his mask. No One has to readjust his position to hear them clearly, and he realises exactly who they’re talking about; his father. He and Gaspard, despite the two-year age difference were undeniably close, it had been one of Maxime’s favourite things to talk about. They had remained fast friends as the years went by, No One wonders if they still speak to one another now times have changed them both.

He had heard tales of their years in the Academie multiple times. How, despite Gaspard being a prince, became one of the most liked students in the order. Maxime always stated that it had nothing to do with the man’s standing, and it was purely because Gaspard worked hard at his training and he worked well with others to help them too. The prince, now emperor, was a _true_ chevalier. The thought curdles in No One’s mind; the tyrant on the throne was probably more loved by his father than he was.

“ _Close_? Never.” The nasally one said, scoffing at the thought of Gaspard in bed with a _Baroulx_ of all things.

“It’s true. Do you not-”

“Do _not_ say it again.” A pause of silence as he retracts the hand meant to shush the other, and then “So, it _is_ Duke Maxime then, for certain?”

“Yes, visiting the Inquisitor, very low-key, hush hush and-” No One flees before he can hear anymore. His father is coming to Skyhold, his _father_ is coming to Skyhold. It twists his belly so unpleasantly that whatever remains in his stomach spills foul from his mouth. He staggers passed it and dry heaves just beyond the main doors to the fortress, ignoring those who flinch at his presence, and those who grumble behind him. No One pushes passed them and down to the lower courtyard, and out through the iron gates.

He follows where his feet take him, barefoot through the snow and blind with fear, walking until he collapses. No One doesn’t know how long he sits against the thicker trunk, mindlessly he watches the sun ride high above him, and watches the snow fall damp across his legs. It’s all too much to take in; kissing Thom, telling him who he was, and his _father_.

It’s Andrastopher who finds him in the snow late into the eve. His bow in one hand, and a quiver of blue feathered arrows tied to his thigh. He stands to his full frame, blocking the light from the sliver of moon that has begun to emerge and waits until No One glances up to look at him.

“Odd time to be out at night, Chevalier.” He says as dull and monotonous as ever. No One doesn’t say anything in return, his tongue is swollen in his mouth, and his lips are dotted with ice. “Have you come here to die?”

“What?” No One croaks. Andrastopher slips and arrow from his side and nocks it with precision. “Most would prefer an arrow over the alternative.”

“You would kill me, just like that?” No One huffs, though he receives no answer from the Warden. Instead he has to push the arrow away from his face and grunt his way through standing up. “Stop calling me Chevalier.”

“It’s what you are.”

“No,” He pauses, struggling to keep his balance, “it’s not.” The bark is wet under his fingertips, damp from fallen snow, and oddly carved. His fingers trace the lines, dragging the tips down through the groove and to the end of their path. Claw marks, done by his own hand. He knows what he is, and he is not a chevalier by any means any longer.

“Go back to Skyhold.” Andrastopher places the arrow carefully back into his quiver, shifting the loose fabric tied at his waist to cover the dyed feathers. He taps No One with the tip of his bow to shoo him away.

“Why are you out here?” No One asks, his hand still splayed against the tree. He doesn’t turn to face the Warden, something tells him the man standing behind him is dangerous. Not in a way that most would assume, something else, something beyond No One’s perception.

“Hunting.”

“At night?”

“That much is obvious.” Andrastopher taps him again, with more force to make him step away from the tree. His fingers disconnect from the marks he had once made, and he finally looks at the Warden Commander. Out here he wears no silverlite; it would shine too brilliantly under the moon. He is dressed in white leathers that look to have seen better days, even the metal on his bow is bound tightly in light cloth. The man could walk right up to you unnoticed out here, even No One hadn’t heard his footfalls in the snow.

No One doesn’t bid him goodbye, he simply walks in the direction of the looming fortress. He can’t help the relief that floods him when he’s away from the Warden. Andrastopher doesn’t know all his secrets, and it is a blessing he has so desired.

The lengthy bridge back to the mountain fortress is empty save for the last carts to leave for the day, and the walk had calmed his rampant thoughts. He felt more at ease knowing things weren’t as bad as they could be; people knowing he was a chevalier was one thing, but knowing he was a beast was hauntingly worse.

Halfway across he notices a man carrying a lit torch, his other hand against his brow to concentrate on whatever he’s looking at. No One turns back to check there’s nothing behind him before he peers at the other man. As he gets closer he can make out his features, dark hair, puffed coat, a forked beard; Thom. He smiles at the sight even as his fears remind him what may be hiding in wait. His pace increases, no longer staggering in the cold but encouraging the wet slap of naked feet against the stone made bridge.

Thom places the torch in one of the iron rings decorating the gatehouse and feels a certain comfort wash over him. No One was safe, and he had returned. He embraces the blonde when they’re close enough, one hand cupping the back of his head and the other curled fervently at his waist. It takes a second before No One’s arms return the action, leaning his head into Thom’s neck.

“You had me worried.” Thom murmurs against his skin.

“I…” No One bites his tongue for lack of any words to say.

“You’re freezing.” Thom pulls back, his hands clasped on the other man’s shoulders and gently steering him into Skyhold. He keeps at least one hand on No One when they make the journey to Thom’s room where a fire burns brightly in the hearth. It’s too late to have a bath drawn, so instead Thom sits him by the fire and hangs his damp clothes to dry.

Neither of them have spoken since, and No One finds the silence both comforting and discomforting. Wrapped naked in blankets by a blazing fire in Thom’s room should be romantic, or at least drastically beyond platonic. But it’s not. Thom hands him a glass of whiskey to burn his insides and paces the room trying to find things to do.

“Thank you.” No One offers, stopping the relentless footsteps. “For everything.” He adds. Thom doesn’t say anything, he doesn’t think he has really done anything worth being thanked for. He had only been a set of ears and a few blankets in the last set of hours. “I thought you might tell someone, and I feel guilty for it. Not only that but burdening you with this, with me. You’re too good of a man for that.” No One turns to face Thom, and looks back into the fire when the other man sinks to sit beside him on the floor.

“You are who you choose to follow,” Thom says, “a chevalier taught me that, years ago. There are good chevaliers and bad ones, and I don’t think you’re half as bad as you think you are.”

“Didn’t happen to be Geoffroy de Bordelon, did it?” No One snorts.

“You know him?” Thom asks with a smile growing across his mouth.

“They usually come back to the Academie to train the new recruits, and test the recently graduated. All the soldiers have the same training but it develops differently over time.” No One stretches out his hands towards the fire, warming his palms greedily. “He sparred with me a few times, and he said those same words to Emile. I was a sinking ship, and he knew Emile would follow me blindly into deeper waters.”

“Emile, you’ve mentioned him before.” Thom says, barely digging but enough for No One to accept his curiosity.

“We shared a room in the Academie, he was my closest friend, and one of the good ones.” No One pulls the blankets closer around him. He wondered what had become of Emile, had he married or started a family, was he still a working chevalier, was he even still alive. There were so many faces he had left in the past, and it brings agonising sorrow to his chest.

“I shouldn’t have said anything.” Thom apologises.

“No, it’s, I hope he’s well.” No One reaches to pat Thom’s knee, a gentle way of saying thank you once more. He turns back to gazing into the fire, unfolding his legs beneath the blanket and stretching them out towards the flames. Thom doesn’t seem to mind, rather he’s glanced at them time or two more than is appropriate.

They’re awkward looking things. His knees and ankles stick out too much, the knuckles on his toes are too large, and his feet are thick with callouses and dry skin. Five years of being barefoot and eating little can really waste away at your body. As of late he’s started to put some weight back on, his ribs are still visible but there’s a soft pouch growing on his gut that he’s becoming fond of.

Thom isn’t bothered by the sight, he knows he had felt them often enough through their time together. Just through gentle pats and squeezes he knew that No One’s legs weren’t tree trunks by any means. But what confuses him is the straightness of them, No One always walked as if his legs were naturally bowed but here they don’t look any different than Thom’s own did.

He stretched out his own legs, frowning at the difference in length. No One was taller than him, but only by an inch or two, yet sitting here the blonde obviously had much longer legs. Thom frowned at the sight, a chevalier would have almost perfect posture; they had to in order to carry such a large shield. He had changed his gait to throw people off his scent, all Thom had done was grow out his hair and avoid crowds.

Thom pulls his legs back up, bending them at the knee and leaning forward on them. There isn’t much to say, they’re both adjusting to certain things and it’s not something that can be rushed. But they’re peaceful, and Thom feels like No One has let him in. His walls remain, but he knows he can get around them, and he knows how to bypass them entirely.

“No One,” Thom begins and turns towards the other man. He’s slumped over and his eyes shut, his breath gentle in his chest; he had fallen asleep.


	26. Running

The Iron Bull makes his way to Leliana’s personal crook, after sending Dorian a suggestive wink and a flash of teeth, and waits for the Spymaster to conclude her work. She’s deep in reports and Bull purposefully keeps his eyes averted, he’s not Qunari anymore, so he doesn’t need to know all the comings and goings of Skyhold. Still, curiosity remains an indulgence.

He tries to focus on the crows that rest in their hanging cages, wondering if Solas down below has ever been pooped on by one of them. The thought brings a grin to him that he artfully suppresses. If he concentrates he can hear Dorian mumbling as he reads through his books below, he seems more distracted than usual and Bull proudly strokes his ego over it. Last night had been something else.

“I’ve got some news on our guy.” Bull starts when he can tell she’s finishing up. “He’s Orlesian, noble for sure.”

“I had hoped he was Nevarran, there’s few Nevarran’s named any form of Adeline.” Leliana glances up at him with a tilt of her head, she wants him to explain further.

“Saw him dancing in the tavern, might have been a commoner’s dance but it was a rich man’s footwork. Then I saw him eavesdropping on Orlesian conversations in the gardens, he’s watching Morrigan too.”

“Why Morrigan?” Leliana scoffs. She knew she didn’t trust the witch, and that Emperor Gaspard had sent her away rather than give her as a gift. But that didn’t bode well for Orlesian-Skyhold relations if he had sent someone to watch her. Not Luin had arrived sometime after her, so it could be the reason for the man’s obtuse anonymity.

She also remembers meeting the Chasind woman all those years ago in Lothering, beside the Warden who now hated her venomously. Not that their interactions a decade ago had promoted anything other than hostility. It certainly begins to increase Not Luin’s importance in whatever was going on. She would have to invest more time into this, to find out exactly who’s playing against the Inquisition. She was right to keep him at the back of her mind, he was more than he let on and that made him dangerous.

“I’ll get back to you on that, Red.” Bull nods and stands to leave, the chair scraping painfully across the floor as he moves.

“Thank you, Bull. I’ll be able to pull some scouts back and narrow down my searches.” She hides her monologue well, there was more she needed to know.

“Oh, Red,” Bull starts, thinking of what he wants to say. He knows the Warden Commander. The man had stood out back in Par Vollen, not many Viddathari had facial tattoos nor such a prolific story, and not many were that close with the Arishok either. He hadn’t seen him much after that, only ever once or twice. To see him in Skyhold now gave Bull a conflict. “Him and Thom Rainier…” Bull says, acting unsure of how to describe the two men, and keeping his knowledge to himself.

He had heard about their late-night kiss in the courtyard, and while he hadn’t seen anything else he trusted his sources. Especially if it came from the mouth of a certain Tevinter mage he had begun to find so addictive. He needed to gather more information on the Warden before he came to Leliana with it. She might have been an expert in the Grand Game, but that was nothing compared to the training the Ben-Hassrath underwent.

“I know.” Leliana adds sadly. Thom might be a liar, and had caused a lot of pain in Skyhold, but she couldn’t rule out the possibility that he was a pawn in all of this. Especially if Not Luin was working for Emperor Gaspard. What better way to strike at one foe than by cutting through another.

She would keep the information to herself for now, Goddard and Gaspard had become fast friends and ruining that prematurely could have devastating consequences. The reports call to her and she organises a few more scouts to search through birth records for an Adeline; with at least one brother, born on the eleventh of Haring, and to a noble family in Orlais.

No One wakes the next morning, dazed and still a little weary from sleep, but utterly relaxed. It must be almost midday from the thin beam of sunlight worming its way through the heavy winter curtains. He rubs the dryness from his eyes and groans into a stretch before rolling over, moaning at the colder area of the pillow he now rests his cheek on. From the shifts of sheets on his skin, he’s still entirely naked from last night. Which isn’t as surprising as it should be. The fact that he felt so refreshed after a single night, and can’t remember any dreams that he may have had, sings proudly in his mind.

It was years since he had claimed such a restful night. By the Maker, how he had missed it. He hadn’t even had to have passed out drunk nor been knocked unconscious. Last night had just been so calming, beside Thom, beside the fire, with most of his worries washed away.

He remembers the last time he had slept in here, on Adeline’s nameday, though slept is a generous word for what he had done. Thom still doesn’t know about what had happened then, and he feels embarrassed even thinking about it. He should properly thank The Iron Bull for not telling him, he did intend to start building bridges after all.

His clothes are folded neatly to one side, dried out from yesterday’s snow, yet he is loathed to move. Instead he slowly slides an arm across the bed, he feels the sheets wrinkle under his hand, and despite the cold he splays out his fingers and closes his eyes. No One can imagine Thom beside him, it doesn’t matter if he’s naked too or not, just that he’s there with him. A smile tugs at his mouth and he grips the sheets between his fingers. Seeing those blue eyes in the dawning light could do things to a man.

No One had seen Thom wake up before, it’s nothing special from across the room or in a darkened cell. But if he were in bed beside him, it would be something else. With foul breath and untamed hair, No One can imagine it far too well. He has to open his eyes and roll away from the fake memory, far too engrossed by the imagery. No One laughs breathily as he pulls himself from the bed, sitting up on one side and fighting the temptation just to climb back in.

He dresses quickly, ignoring the boots Thom had put next to them, and drapes the druffalo wool over his shoulders. A few blankets, the ones he hadn’t worn last night, were also folded neatly on the settee. Evidence enough that Thom had allowed him the use of the bed all to himself. A small part of him still worries about Thom knowing his secrets, and it’s one of the biggest he has kept. But he considers that he hasn’t woken up in a cell, nor surrounded by armed guards. So, it was more than likely that he hadn’t spoken of it to anyone else.

No One still has to worry about his father arriving at Skyhold. It’s an impending disaster he’s going to have to avoid, easily done by leaving the mountain fortress and being elsewhere for a while. Though he doesn’t exactly know when Maxime will arrive, or how long he plans on staying, and even the reason why eludes him. He should have continued to listen on the gossiping nobles, he would have had more information. It doesn’t help that the only thing he knows about the two men were their distinct voices which were easily drowned out in the crowds of Skyhold.

He’s not particularly of a mind of wanting to leave either. After the last few days with Thom, the leaps and bounds they’ve made in whatever they were was drastic. To leave now might undo that, and from Thom’s reaction to his daytime absence last night, he doesn’t think the man wants him to leave. He decides to stay for the time being, or at least until he can gather more information about his father’s movements. The Piss Merchant would be able to find out quickly enough, but that would be giving him is real name, and he’s not about to hand the man that much power, nor give him his father. Still, he is the perfect excuse to leave in a few days’ time, he still has contracts to complete. Explaining that to Thom, or outright lying was something else he’d have to tackle when he got to it.

The tavern is half full of people late to their second meal, who are eating the last remnants of their food and chatting over half-drank ales. No One pushes his way through them and sits himself at the bar. Cabot gives him a meal and a drink, adding the total to Thom’s tab, and looks minorly surprised when No One takes it to sit down beside The Iron Bull.

“Listen, Bull, I wanted to thank you.” No One starts, placing his bowl in his lap and his ale on the armrest of the bench. “While I’m sober enough to make it seem sincere.”

“Oh?” He’s only half paying attention, waving an order to Cabot from across the room.

“Last month, when I… In Thom’s room.” No One can’t find the words to explain exactly what had happened, but he’s trying to be less vulgar so there’s little he can think of to describe the events in a polite manner.

“Hah, yes.” He draws out his final words with a grin to suppress his laugh.

“You have my thanks for not telling him what had happened, and if you need something, I owe you a favour.”

“Nah, it’s alright, big guy, wouldn’t want anyone catching me like that either.” Bull leans in closer and lowers his voice. “What made you get so pissed in the first place?”

“I was grieving.” No One partially lies; he was grieving for not having seen Adeline in years, but she was hardly dead. Bull accepts that with a sombre nod and sits back up in his seat, deciding not to press on what could be an open wound, yet keeping the knowledge in mind.

No One makes the effort to ask Bull about his Chargers much to the Qunari’s delight. He keeps track of their names, barely, and is just as shocked as everyone else when he learns Bull’s second in command is Tevinter. It makes for an odd story, but a thrilling one nonetheless. There’s little he can offer in return, but he does his best to ask insightful questions about his men. He excuses himself when he has finished his meal, bar one mouthful, shoving his iron teeth back in place and dropping the bowl on the bar.

The warmer weather brings more people to the gardens, enjoying the fresher mountain air even as the winter chill remains. It forces No One to take a place on the upper balcony, giving him a lowered chance on eavesdropping about his father. He couldn’t have been the only one listening to that conversation, and he can imagine it is one that the two had shared a few times. After all, what good was gossip when you could only tell one other? It doesn’t help him that the bard from the tavern had decided to make her coin here either. Her voice is lovely, but it is not the one he wants to hear.

No One stares down at the small crowd, spotting the liaison and her son off to one side. The boy didn’t seem to be of any harm, he hadn’t even thrown a sulk as his mother forced him to study again. Still, No One thought over his theory. Kieran didn’t seem much like Andrastopher at all, but if the Warden was an absent father would his son be anything like him? Adeline hadn’t seemed to copy any of his traits, or he didn’t think so as he picked through his memories. The Warden also had those Maker-awful ears and Kieran looked fairly normal in that area.

He wonders if perhaps he’s thinking about this the wrong way. Perhaps Kieran is not Andrastopher’s son, but Andrastopher knows the true father. No One hadn’t seen any sign of Morrigan engaging with anyone other than the Inquisitor and a few scouts, and he had heard no rumours about who the father might be. The thought that Trevelyan could have another bastard tickles his gut, but the theory could make sense if he could place him with Morrigan so many years ago. After all, the Inquisitor too had dark hair now greyed, dark eyes, and pale skin.

No One doesn’t even know if the father had anything to do with why Andrastopher wanted the boy watched, but he knew the importance of lineage and heirs, and the battles that had been born from them. It is the same reason he could never claim Adeline as his own. It would ruin so many lives, soil many great families, and besmirch their honour. Confessing could have saved Adeline’s mother. No One sighs and scratches at his neck, what would they have done, he was only thirteen and she was much, much older. The memory brings a sour taste to his mouth and he chews on his tongue to distract himself.

Thom had spent most of the afternoon sparring with the few soldiers who would give him the time of day. Most were loyal to Commander Cullen’s opinion of the man, not wanting to get on the wrong side of the ex-Templar meant playing by all his rules. Some had the intelligence to realise the commander didn’t truly make all their decisions. The Inquisitor was a heavily decorated war hero who had seen decades of warfare and often evaluated the troops, ran them through drills, and even go as far as to train with a lucky few. Even though nobody truly wanted to knock the Herald of Andraste on his own arse, they still enjoyed the attention. Goddard hadn’t sparred with Thom in months.

He was admittedly partially distracted from the events over the past few days. No One had been a massacre of sorts, yet Thom couldn’t blame him in the slightest. Choosing to face up to his past wasn’t the most exciting thing to do, it was the right thing without a doubt, but it was terrifying. Exhausting, evidently. The way No One had been slumped when he sat in front of the fire didn’t inspire comfort in his frame, yet he looked the most serene Thom had ever seen him.

Thom dodges low and raises his sword high in a sweeping arch to catch the soldier under his arm. If it were a real blade the arm would have come off clean, but the soldier concedes and takes a starting position one more. As it is hard to fight after your sword arm has been severed.

Last night he had thought about waking No One up, to tell him to go back to his own bed. But with how cold the man must have been in the snow all day, he daren’t leave him alone for the night. He had spent a few minutes trying to figure out how to move him into his bed knowing he was naked under the layers of blankets Thom had forced him into. It wouldn’t be the first time he’s had to carry another fully-grown man, soldiers are trained to do that sort of thing, going so far as to force every member of the troop into carrying their heaviest. Rescuing them from certain peril was what was intended by it all, but using the dead as running cover was also an unspoken suggestion. But this was different, this was No One, and it wasn’t a battlefield.

The soldier takes a sparring sword to the back of his ankle and admits that would hobble him enough that they needn’t carry on this spar. They both drop back into a starting stance and continue their training. He’s glad he’s not too distracted, Sutherland had been kind enough to go easy on him before; this soldier wouldn’t be.

Thom had shifted the quilts on the bed before lifting No One with more strength that he had needed. The blonde was incredibly light, and even the extra inches of height didn’t make it awkward for Thom to carry him. He covered him up with the quilts, and sat for a while making sure the fire would burn hot enough to keep him warm throughout the night. Even waking periodically, as best as he could, to stoke the flames into something warmer.

It’s odd knowing, _truly_ knowing, about No One’s past. He sits on the settee, a hand running through his hair, and a slump in his frame. Chevaliers were something else, and he was right, Thom knew he was right, that some of them could be good. Maybe it had taken No One something shy of eighteen years, but he had become a good man in the end. That’s what mattered. If one could atone for their sins, it might not make it better for all, but it would be something of a kindness to some.

Thom stops himself from hitting the soldier too hard across the shoulder when his concentration is elsewhere. He has to turn around, convincing himself it’s not a ruse, when others in the group stop to stare at whatever is going on behind him.

“Carry on.” The order rings across the sparring area, and a few take up their swords lazily, intent on watching the owner of the voice while making the attempt to obey.

“Nonsense, they want to be inspired by their Herald, let them see, Your Worship.” An Orlesian’s voice sings, and for a moment Thom is anxious. He knows it is Lord Chancer de Lion, a man brought in specifically to train with the Inquisitor’s chevalier fighting style, yet it’s an Orlesian. A noble Orlesian who might know another noble Orlesian that Thom holds dear.

There’s little Goddard can do for the first few seconds to dissuade the crowd, eventually giving up and allowing them to watch. It’s a thrilling thing to see the Herald in action. Many of the scouts out in the field bring back wild tales of watching him fight. Thom can remember the night they were set upon in their tents by Red Templars, fighting in the dark like that with just the piercing hum of corrupted lyrium and the bloodied glow of Templars to navigate was nightmarish. Goddard and Bull had cut them down methodically, and Thom had stayed back to stick to Varric knowing the archer couldn’t fire arrows in shifting darkness like that. Too much of a risk to injure his own teammates.

It starts with duelling bows, a customary greeting between champions, and an allude to showing their personal standards though there aren’t any displayed. Goddard is nimble for his age, as if his years never really caught up to him, even against a man half his time. So many parries and ripostes and both men are sweating with heavy breaths. The sound of clacking sparring swords never sounds as valiant as proper steel hitting steel but the crowd, including Thom, remains enthralled.

Three points are scored slowly; two for Goddard and one for Chancer. Not long into the fight Thom had figured out it wasn’t a sparring session for fighting Red Templars or whatever they may face on their journeys, but a recap on duelling and its customs. It’s unusual, he thinks, since they hadn’t any need to go to Orlais, nor had he heard anything about duelling threats against Trevelyan. The last one being a long time ago before Thom had even joined the Inquisition. Apparently, Madame Vivienne had sorted that issue out rather quickly and had earned Goddard’s trust almost instantaneously.

“He’s good, isn’t he?” Twyla says from beside Thom. He scrubs the back of his neck to calm his flinch, when had she arrived?

“He’s the Herald for a reason, My Lady.” Thom laughs.

“That he is. I came to deliver you a letter.” She hands him a folded piece of parchment, bearing an undisturbed Trevelyan wax seal. Thom frowns at the idea; Lady Trevelyan delivering messages like this, it’s bizarre, and he knows what it may look like to outsiders. “It’s from Fulton, it came in a parcel with mine.”

“Oh, thank you.” He chews the inner side of his cheek as he pries it open, doing little to hide from Twyla’s prying eyes. Fulton’s scripture is artful for a man so large, even his words are flowery and noble befitting of his status.

It’s an apology, well worded and from what Thom can tell; utterly sincere. He also apologises to _that blonde_ he attacked as well. Explaining that he thought Thom might know him since he jumped valiantly to his defence, and that perhaps he could pass along the message. More than that he extends Thom the invitation of staying at Fulton’s own home, whenever he may choose. For Thom had been a friend to him in the short time they had spent together, and in the future, he hopes to hear from him again.

“He hasn’t sent one to our father.” Twyla says sadly, quiet enough that only Thom might hear her. “I thought he might have given you a reason or, well, or anything really.” She sighs and folds her arms, looking less of the lady she did the last time he saw her. Looking just as any common soldier would, she had gone without the noble makeup and the perfectly made hair, one look and you’d assume she _was_ a common soldier.

“He’ll come around. I think he’s just confused and hurt about everything that’s happening.”

“ _Confused_? As if anyone knows what’s happening.”

“No, he’s,” Thom pauses, “he asked me what I would do in his situation, if my father had a replacement child for the one he’d just lost.”

“Lei isn’t going to replace Wakefield, ever, and he knows that.” She huffs, her brows creasing and her jaw tensing.

“I know, but losing a sibling affects us all differently.” Thom folds the letter back and flips it nervously between his fingers. “When my sister died, my mother was furious; blaming everyone. My father was… very quiet, and I went out and got into trouble, a lot.”

“I’m sorry, Thom.”

“It’s fine, My Lady, my point is people react differently, and maybe he just needs more time.”

“Far be it for you to insert yourself into my familial affairs,” she chuckles, “but it’s given me a different view point, thank you.”

“Well, I’m here.” Thom offers a shrug.

“Please, write to him,” she places a gentle hand across his arm and squeezes, “it’d do a world of good.” She nods her head as her farewell and leaves without speaking to her father. Thom doesn’t know exactly what he should write to Fulton, but he knows he’ll make the attempt even if his scripture wasn’t as fancy as his. He could always ask No One to write it for him, the blonde’s writing was much cleaner and clearer.

Chancer ends up losing again to the Inquisitor, and he lets the Champion tutor replace their sparring swords as he takes his leave. No doubt chasing after his daughter. There’s a light smack across his arm from the soldier he was training with, but Thom declines another match. Deciding instead to bathe and to check on No One if the blonde still remained in bed.

Thom never needed that much water to bathe in, too many washes done in calf-deep river water and one can easily start to enjoy it. But he indulges himself this time. He helps the maids carry the water up to his chamber, he can’t carry it half as gracefully, but they’re thankful for the help. Lugging water buckets around is just about as fun as it sounds. Thom drops himself in with the heating runes and lets his mind run with images of No One.

He still can’t picture him in golden armour and the dyed blue cloths no matter how hard he tries. The moustache he had was born of an Orlesian fashion, though far too long to be considered in season, but with those full-faced helmets they wore many a man was clean shaven. But No One had scars lancing his face, which meant he might not have worn a helmet himself. Or he had suffered those wounds, by sword and arrow, after he had fled from the order. It seemed more realistic, yet it meant that he must have been in some kind of violent altercation to take an arrow to the face. Presumably they had been trying to kill him, why else would they aim for his head. Had it been a chevalier’s arrow, or a chevalier’s blade? The thought makes him uneasy.

Thom sinks into the water until he can feel it tickling his nose. His hair is getting longer, he can see the tendrils clinging to the slight waves he makes. He’ll have to cut it soon, but he always lets it grow a bit longer in the winter to keep his neck warm. No One’s hair was plenty long too, sitting at the lower edges of his shoulder blades. He doesn’t know if that’s for warmth or to hide the mess of skin he has there.

Finding out No One was a chevalier had answered one question and brought several more to light. He can’t help but think if the life No One use to live had affected him in the choices he made daily. It would, Thom thinks, but to what extent? The blonde had changed everything about himself to run away from it, and he had run successfully. The cataclysmic event of stopping to tell Thom had left them both reeling.

Yet Thom was here bathing, thinking about the scars on No One’s body which ran to intimate areas. One in particular that ran at an angle down his torso and to his cock. Thom huffed in the water and started to scrub himself down with soap, pulling the images from his mind and concentrating on washing away the sweat from his sparring sessions.

The area above the gatehouse is much quieter than the gardens today. No One finds himself abandoning his watch on Kieran as the boy simply does nothing of interest, even though he had no idea what he was supposed to be looking for anyway, and watching for his family’s heraldry was much more important.

To see that golden phoenix again. He remembers it emblazoned on armour, sewn into tabards and capes, and painted onto every shield it wasn’t hammered into. It’s the ghost of a thousand pin pricks that flares across his back when he remembers the tattooed phoenix he once had. Having it flayed off as the behest of the Piss Merchant was one of the most painful things he had suffered, and no amount of chevalier endurance could allow a man to shrug the process off. He thinks he might have fainted during the flaying, but the wound had healed well enough, and for that he was thankful. Enduring an infection, or dying from it, was an awful thing to suffer.

But if what the two men had said was true, then his father wouldn’t proudly display his colours, and No One wouldn’t see him coming. Maxime Baroulx was a chevalier too, just as every man born in his family is. Which meant right at this very moment there was an enemy marching for Skyhold, even if it was his own kin. The thought had terrified him ever since he had left the order. Because as he left the chevaliers, he knew he could never go home without dying, he knew he would abandon all those close to him, he would be abandoning his family. Yet he had done it all the same.

“I apologise for punching you.” Caldwell says from behind No One. The blonde turns slowly, an eyebrow raised as he leans back against the stone wall. He’s thankful for the interruption and the distraction from his spiralling thoughts.

“Don’t be.” He shrugs.

“You said that last time, but, I _am_ sorry.” Caldwell adjusts the strap holding his satchel and leans next to No One. “I was trying to be tougher. Most of the scouts are trained but the runners aren’t, because they’re good at, well, _running_.” He laughs and feels the tips of his ears begin to burn. He’s nervous with guilt, hoping that they could make up for the last time they spoke, and possibly forget the night they spent together. It was embarrassing and, despite the hangover he had nursed the next day, it was thrilling. But it was too much too soon for it to become anything more.

“Do you want to fight?” No One asks, lowering his voice and dipping his head toward the boy. “Truly?” He adds in a softer voice. Caldwell thinks for a moment, glancing away from No One’s heavy stare, and out over the mountains. When he was younger he couldn’t think of anything he wanted to do more than to prove he was good enough, in whatever way he could claim as his own.

“Of course, I do.” He says.

 “I never wanted to.” No One admits. “Took me a while, but I really liked the organ, you know?” He wiggles his fingers across the edge of the ramparts as if they were keys, and whistles a rising pitch.

“It’s saved you though, hasn’t it?”

“The organ?” He laughs, Caldwell offers him a frown and a smile. “Running has saved my life, don’t undervalue a pair of fast legs.” No One kicks him gently, and offers his own smile in return. Making friends, he thinks, it’s not that bad. The elf has to laugh at him, ridiculous as he is, it’s a change from what he had first been.

“Running isn’t exactly brave.” Caldwell sighs.

“No, but sometimes it is all you have left.” No One turns away from the younger man; making friends was a steep slope and he needed to step far more carefully than he was right now. He’s glad when Caldwell doesn’t make an attempt to ask him exactly what he meant by that, but he sees it hit something deep within the elf, and he realises there’s more to the scout that meets the eye.

“I have to go, letters to deliver.” He steps back from the edge and adjusts the satchel strap across his shoulder, he looks as if he wants to speak but holds his tongue. It was nice to repair what little they had, and it was good to know that the punch was forgiven. He thinks. No One sends a small wave when he disappears into the Commander’s perch, knowing he was one fraction closer to setting more permanent roots in Skyhold.

He reminds himself that perhaps he’s being too idealistic about it all. Thom’s honour and loyalty to the Herald might win out over his… No One’s thoughts can’t supply him an answer. He doesn’t know what Thom feels for him, he can’t call it love, but he can admit it’s something more than friendship. Love isn’t what he would call what he feels for Thom, but he could see himself falling in love with the man, there’s no reason for him not to imagine the scenario.

But where could they go? The Inquisition will have to end at some point, they can’t fight a darkspawn god forever, and when that goes what happens to them both? Thom could have plans, a family, friends elsewhere, he could go somewhere that No One cannot follow. Or this war could kill them both.

It’s a saddening thought, and No One is on borrowed time already. He simply doesn’t have the minutes to stand around waiting, but he knows he can do little else. There are few things that are sweeter than the feeling he gets around Thom, and that, he thinks, is worth all the time he’s got left. He leaves his perch with a grin and a plan in mind.

The wine he had received as a gift months ago from the Piss Monger remained trapped in the wooden parcel box, he grabs it in a rush thinking through the reasons to explain it to Thom. All that time ago he had told him it was an expensive wine for celebrating; and they had a reason to celebrate. No One just had to think of it before he got to Thom’s chambers. He hopes the man is in there, he ducks his head into the tavern and the stables on his way. Both absent of who he was searching for, which gave higher chances of finding Thom in his rooms.

The door becomes an interesting obstacle for No One to cross. Last night he had slept in there, before that he had confessed to major things which could have ruined everything he had built here. The night before that he had fled from the structure after refusing the opportunity for sex in that room. Sex specifically with Thom. He wonders whether he should knock, or announce himself, or simply walk in. His hand hovers in a fist, the box of wine under his arm, and he waits for something to happen. There’s a voice in his head which tells him he can simply leave again, and forget any of this happened, but his fingers gently clasp the latch and hitch it upwards.

“I brought wine.” He says stepping inside the bedchamber. The fire is burning steadily, the curtains are drawn closed even this early in the night, and Thom is very damp. “I brought wine.” He repeats, embarrassingly nervous for a reason he can’t pinpoint.

“I can see that.” Thom chuckles. His hair is darker when it’s wet, disguising the greys and taking years from his features, some odd ends are clumped together where it has been wrung dry. The clothes he has thrown on have small wet patches where it clings to his skin, the tunic is half unbuttoned and No One can see the thatched hair that grows across Thom’s chest.

He chews his tongue between his lips and turns to shut the door, praying that he wasn’t so busy as to turn him away. Thom was a sight so pleasant where he once stood, and all the celebratory reasons had fled No One’s mind at this very moment when he needed them most.

“There’s bathwater if you want it.” Thom says, and it doesn’t offer the reprieve No One wants. Still he turns and gives the box to the other man. “We can’t drink this.” He frowns, recognising exactly what it is; it’s far too expensive to be wasted on a man like him. Thom wonders whether No One is used to drinking things which cost more than a common earning, as a nobleman he must have grown up on some of the finest things.

“You once told me it was a drink to celebrate.”

“ _Are_ we celebrating?” Thom raises a brow as he turns the box over in his hands. The design it holds is a mixture of carving a burning; creating swirls of varying shades to lead the eyes to the name of the expensive brand.

“What I told you the other night, about me,” No One says, “I want to celebrate that.” He chews his lips, picking at the dried skin across his fingers and feeling almost worried that he hasn’t worn Thom’s gloves. “It’s, it’s a terrible reason.” He laughs. He doesn’t think he can justify it. Revealing that he used to be a chevalier meant different things to both of them, to himself it was sharing a secret he had kept locked away for years, and to Thom it was finding out something possibly catastrophic.

“We can drink to it.” Thom nods, he can feel the walls building back up around No One. He can feel him slowly shutting him out, and that’s too many steps backwards that he isn’t willing to take.

“No, no, we should, we should save it, you’re right.” No One takes the box from Thom and keeps the wine secure, abandoning it under Thom’s vanity for safe keeping. He thinks on his earlier thoughts; as little as this is, it is something to hold out hope for, something for them both to live for. “When the war is over, we’ll drink this.”

“I’ll hold you to that.”

“I intend to see that you do.” No One promises. “May I invite you to the tavern to celebrate?” He says, offering his hand with a perfected bow. It’s a jest to remind him of the carefree times in his youth, though why he felt the need to do it now was unbeknownst to him.

“It’d be my honour, My Lord.” Thom offers him a mocking bow, grinning at the rolling of No One’s eyes, and the light slap he receives to his shoulder.

“If it’s a bastard’s then yes.” He snorts, returning to his normal self now they've mocked his lordship.

“But first, No One, let me,” He grabs No One’s face, angling it downwards to look at him closely. No One thinks he means to kiss him until a thumb swipes over his forehead and Thom hums under his breath, “I could take these out now.”

“Aye.” No One whispers, cupping his hands over Thom’s own, and leaning into their warmth. They’re close enough to kiss, and he doesn’t know whether or not it’s too soon after his revelation to try it, but damn him he wants to. He inches closer, and feels a stab of pain weave over his chest when Thom pulls away.

“Stitches.” Thom says, shrugging off No One’s hands and stepping away to get his soldier’s kit. He motions vaguely for No One to take a seat on the bed, and Thom drags the vanity stool over. It’s a mimic of how Thom had originally put the stitches in. There’s less blood, the wound is healed so there’s less pain, and the awkwardness of Thom wanting to kiss No One was replaced by the fact he had just refused him.

He doesn’t know why he had done it. Pulled away like that when he knew he wanted to kiss the blonde, but all he could think of was that blasted Orlesian golden armour. Thom still hasn’t quite figured all of that out yet, and it seems so hypocritical after what he had done himself and what he had expected of others. But he had never expected forgiveness, and he definitely wouldn’t have expected it straight away.

Thom only has a few stitches worth of time to think of a way to explain it to No One when he can barely convey it to himself. He wants to be completely honest about his reasons, but he’s wary of how No One will react, wary of him running away again. With the scissors washed he cuts through the stitches carefully, removing them as the same, and dropping them into the chamber pot beside him. He’s avoiding No One’s eyes, focusing solely on what was once keeping his wound together. A hard thing to do when he’s so close.

“It’s too much, isn’t it?” No One whispers. Thom glances away from the wound with a crease between his brows. “I would like to tell you everything, but I can’t. So many people have died because of me, so many lives ruined, telling someone everything would hurt dozens.”

“This isn’t-”

“It is, because all you can see is that fucking uniform.” No One tenses his jaw and swallows hard. “I’ve ruined… I ruin everything I touch, and this, us, I ruined whatever that could have been.”

“Maker’s balls, man, you haven’t.” Thom huffs. He puts the scissors to one side, knowing the stitches are all out, and he rather not have an accident involving the tiny blades.

“ _Man_. You don’t even know my name. How could I ever have expected you to-”

“It’s Florent.” Thom says sternly, grabbing No One’s hand tightly in his own. “Isn’t it?” He adds when No One’s face twists in confusion.

“No.” He frowns. “Why did you, why think that?”

“Fulton is named after his uncle, he died when he was young, I thought your parents might have honoured yours in the same way.”

“My parents don’t think he’s dead, so there’s no need for them to honour his namesake.” No One sits back and picks at his hands, freeing them from Thom’s grip. It dawns on him again how much the other man knows, yet he’s so clueless in other ways. “I’m No One, and I’ll never be more than that.” He looks away with a huff, ashamed at the things he had thought about Thom. How could he not have had faith in the man when he has shown him nothing but. “I can never _be_ more than that.”

 “You already are.” Thom says eagerly, a revelation for them both. “But you’re wrong,” he starts, pulling No One’s attention away from the stone wall and back to him, “I can’t see passed _that fucking uniform_ , because I can’t imagine you in it.”

“Been thinking about me naked, have you?” No One scoffs; it’s easier to revert to old habits than to make progress. He hasn’t exactly made the steps he wanted to make tonight, rather he’s ran backwards and to the left a little, and then gotten lost on the way.

“A bit.” Thom admits, he reaches once more for No One’s hands, stubborn enough to keep trying.

“I looked different back then.” He says, chewing his lip and running his thumbs across the backs of Thom’s hands. “I had short hair, black naturally. I shaved every morning, and I didn’t have these scars until a few years ago. I had one scar, it’s underneath these; Marc threw a fucking rock at my face.” Thom offers him a huff of laughter at the small fleck of information.

“Short hair’s easier with the helmets, and you don’t end up looking like a nug’s arse when you take it off.” Thom laughs, running his fingers through his almost dry hair so it wasn’t flat against his scalp. He had only grown his hair out long to imitate Blackwall, and he hadn’t really thought about cutting it how he used to. “I’d imagine you to be a real charmer, smarmy almost, and I bet all the girls would run to see those eyes.” Thom prods him in the knee and leans back keeping one hand in his own. No One laughs at him and shakes his head; back then he had dark eyes, the werewolf affliction had paled them to a tainted grey. But Thom didn’t need to know that, his irises weren’t changing back anytime soon. He does think for a moment about his complexion, dark hair, dark eyes, and pale skin, there’s too much of that going around.

“You know, I don’t think I ever courted anyone back then. Didn’t sleep around much either.” No One confesses.

“What about that woman you told me about?”

“I think she might have been the only one. I thought I was in love but now,” he chews his tongue for a brief pause, “I think I just liked the sex. It was all very dangerous; hiding in alcoves, quick trysts in unlocked empty rooms.” Because, he thinks but doesn’t say, it pales in comparison to what he feels for Thom. As difficult and as confusing as he is making it for himself, it’s still the most wanted he has ever felt. “If it’s any consolation, I’ve been thinking about you naked too.” No One punches him lightly on the thigh and leans back with an iron grin; it’s an admission he’s happy to make.

They drink for a while after moving to sit beside the fire, they’ve only one bottle of wine in Thom’s room which isn’t the expensive one from No One, but they take it slow. Drinking in sips meant for those of the higher classes in order to extend their time together. It’s more intimate than it was last night despite the fact neither of them are naked.

No One gets up from the floor and moves to stand beside the window, peering out through a slit in the curtains. It’s getting too late for the crowd of Skyhold to be out, and with the snow just starting he can’t imagine anyone voluntarily out in that. Apart from that bloody Warden. Early mornings and late nights, it’s a hunter’s routine, he knows, but it’s unsettling.

“Cousland asked me to join the Wardens.” No One whispers, letting the curtain fall closed. “I said I wouldn’t join without you.” He thinks, after saying it aloud to the other man, that it seems a bit presumptuous. He didn’t know if Thom would want him to follow him to the Grey, or even if he would accept his reasons.

“I know, he told me, I said I couldn’t decide that for you.” Thom stands, abandoning his glass on the mantel and taking a space next to him. “He told me you were a deserter. Does he know you’re-”

“Yes,” No One reaches out, grabbing for Thom’s hand. “and I don’t trust him.”

“I do.” Thom squeezes his hand and gives him a reassuring smile. No One bites his tongue; he trusts Thom, and trusts that Thom can make sound decisions. If the man has faith in the Warden Commander then No One can trust in that, even if he was on the wrong end of an arrow last night, and the victim of his blackmail. He doesn’t know if it’s a wrong decision, but with Thom beside him he knows it is one he can make.

“I trust you.” He says. It runs deeper than just trusting that Thom believes in the Warden Commander, he knows that Thom won’t tell anyone about his status either.

Atop the gatehouse the next day, he could scarce hide the smile that had sewn itself to his lips. For years he had imagined the fall out of revealing who he was, yet there had barely been a splash of anything from Thom. They were similar in their pasts, at least in this small way, and it gave them a connection that No One would struggle to find with another.

But there was another connection which brought better thrills to him; that single kiss. He thought about it often, chewing his lips and stemming the grin before someone could catch on to him. They didn’t speak about Thom had pulling away from him last night, and it left No One unsure of exactly where they could go. Or even if they intended on going somewhere. He hoped dearly that Thom still felt as he once had, and that being a chevalier hadn’t turned it into something else. Rushing things, as he had done, could only soil whatever they might further become.

“You’ve been up here a lot lately.” The elf jests, leaning beside No One, fiddling with his satchel bag.

“Caldwell.” No One nods.

“I’ve enlisted in a training regime.” He grins, wringing the satchel strap in his hands with glee. “I’ll soon be able to fight.”

“Don’t forget how to run.”

“I won’t need to.” He said proudly. It’s an infectious confidence, even as the scout jogs to deliver his next package, No One feels indescribably safe.


	27. As He Should

Caldwell stands in the courtyard, training sword in one hand, wooden shield in the other. There’s a fine sleet coming down upon them as they stand in a small formation, it’s an unfortunate weather for his first session, but the captain had explained they could be asked to fight in any situation. They have scouts in the heavy Orlesian snows, they’ve got men and women enduring the rains of the Storm Coast, and there’s soldiers out under the burning sun in the Western Approach. A little bit of sleet is nothing compared to that. It doesn’t reassure him. But he listens eagerly, surrounded by those who are in the same position as him, _battlefield virgins_ Captain Rickan had called them.

They run through safety, through the more serious injuries they can expect to sustain here in Skyhold, and how to hold their weapons properly. There isn’t as much physical training as Caldwell would have liked, most of it was talking through things with basic demonstrations from the captain. They had never done this much talking back in his clan, but humans did things differently, and he accepted that. Still, it is a lot of talking.

It is for a moment, with Rickan teaching about grip versus weight, that his mind wanders and he finds himself gazing upwards to the ramparts. The weather hits him mostly from behind, so he can glance up without too much of an issue. Higher up he can see the grinning face of Wystan; the man with the iron smile. He had only told him he would be training a few days ago, and to see him watching on his first session brought a pink to his cheeks. Caldwell wasn’t even doing anything in particular, but it gave him a sense of pride in what he was trying to accomplish.

“You, elf, what’s your name?” Rickan demands, and pulls Caldwell from his own thoughts. The captain has a frown on his face, his fury flattened by the dampness across his cheeks but venomously piercing through Caldwell’s confidence. He’s pushed his way through the recruits and stands a few inches higher than him, using it to intimidate the younger man. He gets the sense that he’s done this before, and no doubt he will keep doing it.

“Caldwell, Ser.” He says, trying to will his voice into something stronger, yet sounding as meek as he always had done.

“If you want to make cow-eyes at a human you can leave.” He spits, and turns to address the troops once more, “You’re here to fight, you could be the last line of defence between Corypheus and our Herald. If you’re not willing to pay attention to me now what hope do you have on the battlefield?”

“I’m sorry, Ser, I-”

“Save it, _Runner_.” Rickan sneers the nickname as an insult, before stomping back to the forefront of the group. He feels less confident now, especially when he hears the soft whispers of _Runner_ gracing his pointed ears. Caldwell doesn’t dare to take his eyes off of the captain for the rest of the training session, lest he get caught out again.

With his confidence shaken he spends the next hour or so with the group feeling as if he has already been ostracised. It’s entirely overwhelming, but he endures with a hidden strength. The whole situation reminds him of his time with his clan, never quite fitting in or finding his place whatever he tried. But he wasn’t little Geldwyl any longer; that’s what he told himself. He was a scout of the Inquisition, a man, _an elf_ , standing up to defend Thedas in her time of need. He could be a hero one day.

With that in mind, the thought of being just another runner starts to soil his gut. He’s not happy being someone who can only deliver letters to his betters. Caldwell knows he has something more to offer the world, and by Elger’nan he will find it.

No One feels the slightest bit guilty when he watches the captain tear the young man a new one. He assumed he had been the cause of Caldwell’s distraction, and as such the cause of whatever he had been scolded with. Still, being a soldier came with such trials and tribulations so it was best to get them out of the way as soon as he could. It wasn’t as if a harsh tone would be the worst thing he would face, he was training to be a soldier after all.

He can remember the hazing he had gone through back at the Academie des Chevaliers. Some stupid stuff that had been dangerously hilarious to a fifteen-year-old boy. It wasn’t as thrilling the next year when Armel joined and he had been put through the peer assessment, and enduring Lucien’s four years later was much worse. No One had enough of a student rank to put a stop to everything, but he knew his brother would suffer for it. Luci had been the baby of the family for nine years until his parents had taken in Adeline, joining the chevaliers was meant to stop all of that. Luci did grow up, but he was still No One’s baby brother, that could never change.

Armel and Luci had suffered because of his time in the Academie, No One became an aberration within the order, and they were the brothers of it. They had tried to help him out of whatever trouble he was in all those years ago, eventually confessing to their parents that there was an issue with him. There was little they could do by that point, he was too far down the wyvern-hole to find his way back out, though it didn’t stop them.

On the day that he had fled from the alienage, whence he truly deserted the Orlesian order, Armel had tried to stop him before he left his post. He begged him not to go into the alienage, begged him to stay in his chambers or to go drinking with him, begged him to do anything but visit the elves. Because one of the chevaliers who followed him, must have told Armel what was going to happen. Having so recently graduated himself, Armel knew what might have caused the rampant grief in his brother, and he would have been equipped to deal with it even if he could not understand why.

He should have listened to him. No One might still wear his name with pride if he had simply stayed where he was that day. But what pride would it have been if he had given up, if he had chosen to let a man’s death by his hand lie unanswered. So instead of living with a coward’s pride he took pride in _being_ a coward.

However bad his memories were, and however they tried to drown him, it didn’t matter. Today was the first day that Caldwell began his training, and they were friends. No One was adamant in being able to support him even if they had disagreed with the idea originally. It wasn’t that he didn’t want the younger man to fight, he just didn’t want to be the one to teach him, and he knows what happens when everything becomes about one’s ability to wage war.

No One stayed for the duration of the training session, watching from atop the ramparts with a grin tickling his lips. He still dressed in Thom’s old clothes, the druffalo wool blanket, and without anything on his feet. Half of an unrepaired tent was draped over him like a hooded cloak to keep the weather off of him. He did think about stealing an umbrella from the fortress, but most of those things were made for form over function to pander to Orlesian fashions. Which was hardly what No One needed. He mostly kept away from anything Orlesian, but not too much to cause unnecessary attention. Over the years he had steadily learnt how to blend in and how to disappear within crowds.

The past few days have been good for him and Thom. He’s been called upon by the Inquisitor a lot, but he’s always there with a drink and a warm conversation at the end of the night. It’s growing into something of a tradition, and it’s one that brings a shiver across both men’s backs when they think of it.

They spoke about several things; little nothings that wouldn’t matter to anyone else, gossip from around Skyhold, they broached the subject of the ongoing wars too. Thom regaled stories from battles he had been in, beside the Orlesians, beside the Inquisitor, beside his drunken friends when he was young. No One responded in kind, telling him about how he was called upon to defend the honour of besmirched nobles yet never becoming someone’s champion, and how minor wars were started over spilt wine. He stays his tongue when his mind flits to memories of his uncle-by-law; he had died in a hundred-man battle because of an off-handed insult, and his aunt had waded into a river with far too heavy pockets sewn into her dress. Misery, he had thought, it follows him like a blight.

Speaking was about as much as they had done. Whilst it was exciting and invigorating to spend such time with each other, there was a growing tension between them. Tested each night as they bid their farewells, wishing instead to be tasting their goodbyes on each other’s lips. No One was too nervous to push Thom to something, and Thom was still figuring No One out. It was an odd balance between desire and determination. One would crumble first under the other, but both would eventually come to fruition, and they would find something perfect between them. It was solely about patience; figuring out when and where they could take each other.

Neither of them could help the thread tugging at their lips when they saw each other. A small smile offered wherever they were, it gave too much away, but there was no shame in what was blooming between them. Thom had once been worried about that; falling for another man, but it had all slipped away quietly. Subtle reminders he found in his friends’ actions that reassured his fears until they were too calm to be called such. No One, on the other hand, hadn’t ever seemed bothered about whoever shared his bed. Only now he wished for it to be Thom; and Thom alone.

No One returns to his home to wait out the foul weather, knowing that Thom is most likely going to remain in the war room with the Herald and his companions for the majority of the day. He sets about lining his iron teeth with lyrium, wondering if and when he’ll get used to the mana burn he suffers every time, and sets them back in his mouth. Grunting through the pain he makes himself comfortable across the embroidered pillows, and settles down for a few hours of rest.

He falls asleep naively, thinking that he might be unaffected by his turbulent nightmares, and feels dread clawing at his body when he awakens in the Fade. Drooping trees and uneven bogs surround him, but silence rings across the green tinted landscape. In the distance stand the two men from before; they move their arms as if they’re deep in conversation, gesturing to objects too blurred for him to see.

No One crawls slowly, his hands burning with the damp that he sinks his palms into. He can feel sweat across his back, leaves clinging to his knees, exhaustion grips him as if he’s dragging a thousand bodies behind him. Too frightened to check if he’s pulling any weight he presses on, closer and closer to the two men, blinking rapidly to dispel the blur that threatens to blind him. With every pull the men seem further away, and though he opens his mouth to yell his voice is lost beneath his throat. The dream begins to fade under vines like claws, drowning him under waves of dirt and forest debris.

It's not the same dream he has had for years, and the new landscape he is thrown into is worrisome. Gone is the werewolf that slaughtered his hunters every few nights, gone is the sound of heavy golden armour, and gone is the fear of being clawed and fevered. Yet his nightmares would still leave him with questions he cannot answer, those two men who stand too far away are something to him. No One simply needs to find out the answer of who they are, or find them.

In the war room, Goddard stands beside his companions and advisors, all staring down at the large painted map sprawled across the war table. Corypheus, whatever his intentions were, was lost. Leliana had sent a group of scouts to find out where another patrol had disappeared, and they found naught but bodies ransacked for their armour. The groups following the darkspawn magister were no longer. Weeks had passed since then and Corypheus could only get further away with each sunrise. It was a hefty blow for morale that could demolish his army’s optimism, and he commanded that the conversation would never leave this room.

“Kaffas, we don’t have anything? At all?” Dorian swore.

“We know Samson is elsewhere, the latest reports mentioned he had left Corypheus’ side.” Cullen points at a sculpted marker, “We have reason to believe he’ll be stopping in the Emprise du Lion, which we know is having troubles of its own.”

“It gives us the excuse to investigate.” Goddard sighs. “Maker be willing this isn’t a wild nug chase, but we can’t leave Sahrnia unaided, especially with Red Templars in the wildland and high dragons nesting there.”

“Agreed.” Thom states, volunteering himself for the journey. He’s offered himself on every mission that Trevelyan has started, he owes it to the man for all the lies he has told. While it doesn’t come to mind straight away, it does begin to bother him about leaving No One behind. When he had gone to Crestwood he had missed the blonde desperately, and he knows that this absence will be harder now he has experienced what No One tastes like.

“We’ll have a week to prepare, as I have a guest set to arrive and I cannot turn him away. Dorian, Bull, Thom, I’ll need you to see the tailor for some thicker clothes.” Goddard orders, with a nod to Josephine who elegantly takes the suggestion down. “Orlais has seen some dreadful winters, I doubt this one will be any different.”

Dorian doesn’t look best pleased about having to slog it out to Sahrnia, and it earns a laugh from a few of them before all three men agree. Thom doesn’t know if Bull and Dorian were a thing or not, but from what he had seen on Dorian’s behalf there was at least something. If there was a little romance between them it would mean doubling down with Goddard. The man who had, as polite as he could at the time, completely refused to share a tent with Thom. He doesn’t think it’s his place to mention it, and he’s sure they’ll sort something out at the very least.

“Thom,” Goddard calls out when they’re filtering through the doors, “a word.” He sounds like a tutor preparing to scold a naughty child, and he feels a swell of anxiety cling to his spine. The fear that starts to bind him isn’t about himself, but rather the thought of No One being caught or exposed as a chevalier deserter. More so now he knows that the Warden Commander is in on the secret, even though Thom trusts the man and knows the Wardens are not political, it is still a small fear in his gut.

“My Lord.” Thom asks when the door is closed behind them, sealing them in for a very private conversation. Leliana looked as if she wished to linger, but Goddard had waved her off with an added nod.

“My daughter, she gave you a letter,” He begins, scratching at the stubble across his jaw, “she was too stubborn to tell me what it said, but I do know it was from my son and I, I would dearly like to know if he is well.”

“He… didn’t say.” Thom says almost silently, clearing his throat as he repeats himself. “He mentioned he was going home to see his wife and children.”

“Is that all?”

“He apologised for punching me.” Thom shrugs.

“As he should.” Goddard says, “Twyla speaks of you fondly.” He adds as a passing thought. It seemed that regardless of Thom’s origins she trusted him beyond a doubt, fighting side by side can do that to people. His only worry was that living in a fortress amidst a war was putting a strain on Moss, Twyla’s husband, who could not fight beside her and had begun to believe better men were.

“She’s a wonderful woman, Inquisitor.” Thom says.

“She is, and she hits harder than Fulton. So, do try to stay on her good side.” Goddard laughs and strokes his greyed hairs back. Thom’s grin wins out over anything else, and he leaves the room more at ease than he was when he first walked in. Things were repairing between himself and the Inquisitor, which meant he was on the right track for redemption.

Josephine catches him before he leaves telling him the Inquisition’s tailor will see him on the next hour. She knows Thom is the least selective of the three about what he wears, and will probably have his clothes sewn before Dorian has his designed. But, begrudgingly, Thom has to admit the Tevinter always manages to look pristine even when marching through the Mire. He’s convinced there must be some magic to it.

Thom hasn’t yet written to Fulton, the words seem lost on him, and he’s never been the one to write poetry to impress girls. His writing is legible, but all the fancy words and over the top scripture that nobles send to one another is beyond him. He was lucky to have even learnt how to write, the chantry taught most of it when he was younger, but his mother always sat him down for an hour to read through and copy the few books they had.

He takes himself to the gardens, hoping to catch No One, after being prodded by the tailor. They’ve settled on keeping most of his outfit in pale tones, she doesn’t want to admit that she’s taken inspiration from the Avvar, but Thom can seem some similarities in the design to what they usually wore. Or, what the few Avvar in Skyhold wore, he hadn’t met many. Amund, who he had met drinking in the tavern a while after meeting him in the Fallow Mire, had a lot to say about lowlander armour. Mostly that it suited them well, for being from the lowlands, which was undecipherable as a compliment or not.

When No One wakens he’s managed to kick all the pillows from around him until he’s lying on the chilled stone floor, his fingers are covered in dried blood from where he has attempted to dig through the ground, and his back aches from being hunched over. He can’t do much but groan as he twists himself back into a normal position, using the heels of his palm to balance as he does so. His nails, having been bitten down already, hadn’t the length to split and break. But his fingertips are raw, all the calloused skin has been peeled away to reveal a sensitive pink.

He staggers from his home, pushing the digits into a small mound of snow and grunting through the freezing temperature. He needs to wrap them up carefully, and keep them protected under gloves for a while until they can heal. No One berates himself for falling asleep. He could have gone a few more days without lyrium, and a day or two more without sleeping.

Yet he can’t help but wonder why he had fallen asleep so well near Thom. He felt safe with the other man, of course he did, but feeling safe had never affected his dreams before. It could be the circumstances, he had just revealed one of his largest secrets and had felt so relieved. Though, his mind reminds him, he had felt the swathes of fatigue gripping at his body, and he couldn’t remember falling asleep. Sadly, he admits, he passed out in front of Thom, and it had little or nothing to do with the other man.

It’s an unfortunate thought. No One had believed that shedding the weight of his burdens might allow him some rest at night, but he was mistaken. Though a glimmer of hope succeeds when he thinks the lyrium might have brought about his turbulent dreams, and perhaps next time he may sleep sweetly.

He pulls his fingers from the snow, wedging them under his arms to dry them off and heads down to where the healers are stationed. No One has to go back to grab Thom’s gloves with his toes and carry them awkwardly in his hand, he’ll need them to cover the bandages. It’s not the best idea, he doesn’t like seeing them, but he can’t wrap his own fingers.

“Serah?” A dwarven healer says, approaching him with a practiced warm smile on her face, “do you need some help?” There’s only a few in the small section, most of their wounds look superficial, some of the others are fighting their way through the winter cough. The group of healers don’t look weighed down by any means. He knows most of the wounds suffered in the field were treated in the field, he can’t imagine anyone wanting to carry someone up a mountain for aid unless it was dire. Even then the healers would most likely travel to them.

“My hands.” No One says, pulling them from under his arms and showing them. The healer keeps her features calm and leads him to a sit on a bed.

“I’m Healer Ver,” She says, gathering a few things to clean the wounds before she can wrap them, “are there any other issues apart from your hands?”

“No.”

“May I ask how this happened?”

“I bite my nails.” No One explains with a shrug, ignoring the sting of the sterilizing liquid after she’s washed away the blood. Ver raises an eyebrow at the confession, she doesn’t think it stems from nail biting, there’s some dirt in the wounds that wouldn’t come from someone’s teeth. But she doesn’t press him for information because his nails _are_ jagged and splintered as if he’s been trying to chew them to the bone.

She wraps each finger carefully after applying a light poultice, making sure they’re not too stiff that they can’t be bent, and that the bandages offer ample protection. No One keeps his eyes trained on the wall behind her, listening to the conversations around him. He tunes them out after he has to hear about the bowel movements of an older man, and instead watches Ver go about her work.

She has a bold line tattooed across the curve of her nose, it branches off three times to create corners around her face. It’s obviously a dwarven design with hard edges and clean-cut lines, and it has the barest hints of being sun-bleached over time. She doesn’t try to hide it across her olive skin, her dark hair pulled back and dark lines around her eyes only seems to make it bolder.

He doesn’t know the intricacies of dwarven politics, and hasn’t ever truly needed to. But he knows tattoos are more of a Dalish accessory than a dwarven one. No One believes them to be the lowest class of dwarves, the ink separating them from the nobility in just a glance. In a way Orlais does the same; one’s mask can tell you everything you needed to know about a person. He doesn’t ask her about her life, because usually you have to give a little to get a little, and No One is trying to stem his lies.

She pats his hands lightly with a tight-lipped smile after a short while; all of his fingers perfectly bandaged up and ready to do whatever they have to. He gives her a nod in thanks and pulls Thom’s gloves over his hands. It’s a bit of a tight fit with all the fur and bandages in there but his fingers don’t ache as much and he can at least use his hands properly.

“A bit of advice, Serah, stop biting your nails.” She waves him off and turns to another patient. It’s not a scolding reminder, but No One can at least try to refrain from chewing them. He can hardly bite through his bandages, nor does he want to. His fingers should be healed enough before the moon is full so he doesn’t bother thinking about how his transformation may affect his wounds.

No One knows that the injuries he suffers as a wolf carry through to his natural form, the scars across his face were a mystery to him since he had suffered them before he woke up. But he had once taken an arrow to his thigh as a wolf, and had bandaged it when he came around. He took to limping for months until it finally healed.

In Skyhold the healers are paid fully by the Inquisition, all their needs met and their ingredients free. Anyone seeking aid there never has to hand over a sum of gold, it’s helpful for all the soldiers and workers here, who are free to spend their coin elsewhere. It’s not as if the Inquisition can’t afford to keep a healing team running without payments. Though it doesn’t stop the helpful donations coming in now and again. No One doesn’t have any money on his person so he doesn’t drop anything into the box, and whilst it may be frowned upon by the healers themselves, he can’t exactly pluck coppers from thin air. He reminds himself that the Inquisition’s healers don’t need the money as he walks away.

With little else to do, and burning desire to find out more information about his father’s movements he settles in the gardens, sitting closer to the Orlesian nobles than he knows he should, but it’s easier to pull out their conversations from the crowd this way. There’s gossip about Emperor Gaspard that he isn’t interested in at all, he doesn’t particularly care who he marries because it’s Orlais and his first marriage didn’t last too long. He chuckles at the thought of being paid to kill the new Empress, he was an assassin, and he did think Gaspard was an utter bastard.

No One still keeps his eyes on Kieran, sitting to one side with a book in hand. It’s becoming more of a chore than anything else, the young mage does nothing of interest. He just sits and reads, sometimes he’ll watch the mages assist in botany, most of the time he’s with his mother. No One begins to wonder whether Andrastopher is simply mad. The blight had been awful apparently; No One hadn’t been aware of it when it happened, he was a mindless beast throughout the entire war. But he can imagine that something like that would weigh on someone’s mind quite terribly.

But, he thinks with a frown, the Warden Commander is a hunter and he wouldn’t do something without reason. He just doesn’t know what that reason is. Whether he’s watching Kieran, or his mother, or if he’s watching No One himself, or any other plethora of reasons. The man is incredibly hard to read most of the time with his blank stare and toneless voice.

He decides to play against Andrastopher. It would even out the game they had going if No One could find something out about him to hold over his head. Cousland wasn’t pure by any means, but there would be difficulty in finding out what could hurt the man who had been so cruel in his lifetime. He reminds himself to write a letter to the Piss Merchant, trying to remember the many codes that the man employed. First, he would have to give up a payment, then he would be visited by the Green-Eyed Boy who would take the details, and then he just had to wait. It could take months, digging into someone’s past like this, but he has a feeling that Andrastopher would have left a trail in his wake that might be easy to follow.

“I’ve been looking for you.” Thom says taking a seat next to him and patting No One’s leg to make him move over.

“A bit early for our evening chats, but I won’t complain.” No One grins and focuses completely on Thom. He can eavesdrop and watch Kieran later.

“I wondered if you could do me a favour,” he starts, quelling his laughter, “I need to write a letter but I’ve a soldier’s hand and you don’t.”

“You’ve written your own letters before?” No One raises an eyebrow. He knows Thom can read and write, and soldier’s handwriting wasn’t all that bad. Though he had seen some terrible examples over time and there was no denying that.

“I know, but this is different.”

“Who’s it for?” No One feels a prick of jealousy in his belly. Thom realises it might be a mistake asking No One to pen a letter to a man who fought him and whose actions lead to him being thrown in a cell for a few nights. Fulton had apologised, but Thom hadn’t shown No One the letter yet, so he had no way of offering him the forgiveness the noble wanted.

“The Inquisitor’s son; Fulton.” He says, he tries to hide the grimace on his features but it’s easier said than done. No One evokes a feeling of honesty in him, despite the man arguably being a compulsive liar.

“If you need it, of course.” No One agrees. The jealousy dies down and it’s only a letter. Fulton might be an aggressive twat and the son of one, but No One doesn’t want to refuse Thom, and it can hardly come back to him later as a weapon. Thom is mildly surprised at his reaction. He had expected a scoffed denial after the way the two had met, but the acceptance warmed him pleasantly.

It made Thom feel that flutter of affection swell inside of him. Out here in the gardens, with the smell of the passed rain and perfume, and just the barest hint of a breeze tickling their skin. The sleeted clouds from earlier had gone by and made way for the setting sun, it brightened No One’s hair, and gave his skin an ethereal glow. He can see the divots in his cheeks, the unfaltering straight edge of his nose, his eyes are tired with the beginnings of age but the greyed pupils shine as brilliantly as his iron teeth.

He reaches out with a gloved hand and cups the side of No One’s face, gently guiding him closer until their lips are pressed together. Thom pulls away only an inch to look into No One’s eyes, a question and an answer pass between them, it quells their nerves and fortifies their desires. He closes the gap between them sealing their lips together once more.

The gardens fall away from them. Thom can only feel No One’s hand gently closing around his own, the weight of his mouth, he can feel the bench pressing into the backs of his thighs but that too fades against the other man.

It’s slower than their first kiss, not fuelled by whiskey and ale, not a desperation seeking warmth and desire, here it is different. Both sober, as the sun begins its descent, with the chatter of the gardens falling silent in their ears. They are surrounded by others, yet not a single one matters. Thom can only think of No One, and he can only think of Thom. Everything comes back when they pull away. No One doesn’t know what had prompted the kiss, but he wasn’t going to turn it away when he has been desperate for something of its kind.

The moment is injured by the sound of Orlesian chatter about romance in the gardens, and that murdering traitor Thom Rainier. No One bites his tongue as he pulls back, keeping his grip in Thom’s hand. His fingers sting under the added pressure but he shoves it to the back of his mind, he doesn’t want this moment ruined further. But they’ve both heard it, and it’s a cruel reminder, regardless Thom squeezes the other man’s hand to reassure himself. Things have changed now, he is not the man he once was and neither is No One.

“I’m heading out with the Inquisitor soon.” Thom says quietly, distracting himself from the poisoned tongues of nobles, he still felt unsure of whether or not he actually wanted to leave with the Herald. He would defend the man until his last breath, but he didn’t want to be apart from No One if he could help it. But, he thinks reluctantly, this is the way of war, and he was not so selfish to turn away help because he was interested in pursuing someone.

“When?” No One asks, still fluttering from the unexpected kiss. He wonders whether Thom kissed him because he intends to go, it wouldn’t complicate things if he could slip away without the other man noticing. It would let him leave Skyhold without lying to Thom about where he was going and why.

“In a weeks’ time.” Thom sighs and lowers his voice to keep their conversation more private. “To Sahrnia, in the Emprise, we’re only delayed because our Herald has an important guest arriving.”

“A guest?”

“He didn’t say who, just someone far more important than the villagers who’ve been vanishing into the mines.” Thom huffs. “I know he has his reasons but those people need our help.”

“The most undesirable part of nobility; they sip tea amongst friends whilst the commoners die. Money has a tendency to replace humanity.” No One shrugs, he has been there. It’s not something he wants to admit, and it’s not something he’s entirely proud of by any means. As a child, before Adeline, he had been cruel to the servants they had working across their estates, and he knew his reason for doing that was simply because he could.

“Not that either of you could ever understand,” a shrill voice interrupts them, “but the gracious Herald of Andraste is meeting with an admirable Duke, a man who is far more important than both of you, _combined_.” No One spares her a haughty glance before turning back to Thom, a practiced expression to tell her he’s really not that interested. For what little he can see under her half mask, she understands the meaning, and hides her wound well as she slopes off to find somewhere else to gossip.

There’s no coincidence, No One knows, that the Inquisitor is meeting a Duke and his father is coming to Skyhold. If it’s not the same man, which is highly unlikely, the only option he has is to leave soon. For now, he has a short time frame to get things into order. The letter to the Piss Merchant must be sent, with added details on where to find him, and he needs to make up his excuses for going before Thom leaves. Undoubtedly Maxime will arrive before Thom leaves the fortress with the Inquisitor, which gives him less than a week to progress from that kiss.

“If I could risk having you there with me, I would.” Thom admits, looking down at their clasped hands.

“I could hold my own.” No One grins.

“But you’d be fighting beside the Inquisitor, a champion with chevalier training.” He says, his voice barely a hissed murmur to keep prying ears from listening in.

“And it’s the Emprise du Lion.” he whispers. “We have a week, Thom, why waste it by talking about leaving? I’d like to hear more about this Grand Tourney, I’ve never had the pleasure of going to one myself.”

“It’s incredible.” Thom begins, his face lighting up with happy memories and a youth gone by. No One laughs and hums along to let Thom know he’s listening, rarely interrupting him in his valiant tales. He speaks fondly of his time fighting beside Geoffrey, and No One has to admit the old chevalier couldn’t have been that bad, it was just that he ended up being on the wrong side of his speculations. He couldn’t fault the man for wanting to help Emile, No One know he should have been a better friend back then.

No One can’t remember a time where fighting became a fond memory. Looking back, it has always been either cruel, with family, or a battle to survive. He had never fought in friendly competition as Thom had, everything back in Orlais had been aggressive and everything after that hadn’t truly been a fight. No One knew he had strength in his capabilities, or he had done when he was younger, before his body had begun to waste away with what little he could scavenge. Even when he fought Fulton he felt weak in his movements, too light to pin the other man down. He had lost his chevalier’s strength, and that might just be a good thing. It isn’t a consolation when he admits how powerful he feels as a wolf, he’s glad that isn’t addictive. Too many times has he lost himself in the mind of that beast to count, and the things he had done were unspeakable.

They both find themselves in the tavern as the hours pass them by, in need of a warming meal and a fresh drink. They walk side by side, though not hand in hand, and sit close to each other as they eat. No One’s worries slip from his mind, the thought of his impending father and the leash that the Warden Commander holds doesn’t matter. Nothing bad matters in Thom’s presence, he is entirely overwhelming in the best way that No One can imagine.

“Tomorrow,” No One laughs with the tail end of a joke tickling his gut, “I will write your letter, to his Lordship Trevelyan, because sobriety makes me a better penman.” He pinches his fingers together and waves them as if he is writing in mid-air.

“He apologised, you know?” Thom chuckles.

“Oh?”

“For attacking you.” He sobers his tongue with another swig of ale, leaning back in his chair and scratching his beard.

“As he should.” No One snorts shouldering him. Thom stops the ale from pouring into his mouth with a start, his eyebrows raising and his hand still in his beard. “What?”

“Nothing.” Thom shakes his head, trying to dispel his obvious shock.

“Come on, Thom.” No One nudges him again.

“When I told the Inquisitor,” he shrugs, placing down his ale and rolling it between his hands, “that’s exactly what he said.”

“It’s just a few words.”

“It caught me off guard.” He laughs, mentally shaking the similarity off. Perhaps it’s a noble thing, he thinks, it does sound like the kind of thing a nobleman would say. But it doesn’t affect anything, Thom knows he’s just making links where he can, but there’s little to connect the Inquisitor and No One. Beside their nameday.

“Maybe,” No One says dropping his voice to a serious whisper, “maybe I’m moonlighting as the Inquisitor, and you’re the only one who has figured it out.”

“Your disguise is bloody brilliant.” Thom laughs slapping the man across the arm.

They sober as the night goes on, taking their leave from the tavern at a more reasonable time and walking each other out. There’s a heavy chill in the air with no clouds present in the sky, and it stings No One’s feet the moment he steps out into the snow. He has to pull the druffalo wool over his head quickly to escape the slim moon, and wrap it close to his body to keep out the chill. It’s easy for him to acclimatise to the cold now he’s cursed, it’s something he can’t quite explain but it’s a useful thing to have.

“Tomorrow.” No One nods, as they stand at the crux of leaving each other for the night. He grabs for Thom’s wrist, giving it a gentle pressure before failing to let go. The question passes between them again and No One releases Thom from his grip. Instead he cups the chilling edges of the other man’s beard and leans down to kiss him, he presses their bodies together gently at the insistence of Thom’s hand about his waist.

The kiss is slow like it had been earlier, softer and tinged with alcohol, but no less sweet than any that had come before. They stay together, embracing in the winter cold, eyes closed, they foreheads resting against one another when their lips had separated. No One breathes in heavily as he pulls away, releasing the air with a hum and a smile across his lips.

“Sleep well, Thom Rainier.” He whispers.

“And to you.” Thom chews his tongue before he turns away to make it to his own room. He knew he felt too giddy to sleep after today, from the thrill of kissing and the warmth of ale in his gut. There was something incredible that he found within No One, he couldn’t name it, but it made him feel borderline unstoppable.


	28. In the Mouths of Lions

No One picks his way through his belongings until he finds the small wooden ink set he had abandoned previously. A spare bit of parchment, aptly borrowed from the Inquisition, is lain out of the edge of an upturned crate. It’s a good enough makeshift desk for him to scrawl out a quick _forgone_ and a location near Lake Calenhad signed by _D_ to send to the Piss Merchant. Hopefully that contract will be enough coin to warrant the information he’s asking for.

It’s not the best delivery system, No One isn’t permitted to know all the details of the network because he still has a tongue in his head, but it’s one of the safest. He knows sending a letter with _Andrastopher Cousland; Warden Commander of Ferelden_ written on might draw some attention, more so if anyone starts poking around in who sent it or why. Usually they use a code to relay their messages, such as demands for lyrium or explosives. But the Piss Monger loves his money, and he likes to keep it in hand. _Forgone_ essentially means No One’s next job is free, which doesn’t bother him in the slightest, his money is usually abandoned near those that need it. Though, he reminds himself, he has racked up a debt to Thom he ought to pay.

Thom doesn’t really seem to need the money, No One knows the Inquisition pays the soldiers well, but as things are he doesn’t want to take advantage of the man. More than he already has at any rate. Thom was undoubtedly kind to let No One live off of his coin, without any intention of reaping the debt from him. But it had begun to make him feel guilty; taking from someone who doesn’t deserve to have their things taken.

No One mulls it over with a cup of whiskey rolling between his fingers. If he asked Thom if he wanted the coin back, he knew the man wouldn’t say yes. He could secretly give it to Thom, but would that be deceiving him? It’s a string of thought that he can’t seem to wrap around anything. But as he does with everything he wants to avoid, he puts it to the back of his mind in favour of something else.

From within his clothes he pulls out the letter to Adeline that had been carefully wrapped in a thin cloth and tied to calf. She was something that Thom didn’t know about, but she was something that weighed on No One enormously. So, he wonders, should he tell him? Not everything, he could never tell someone everything about his daughter. But just a few things, just a few small fond memories from when she was younger. Like how he used to braid her hair and sing to her when she had nightmares, or when he would sneak her sweets from the kitchens even though she hadn’t finished her meals. Adeline had only been a young girl when he had last seen her, he had no idea what kind of woman she might have turned into. It’s agony when the thought that she might not remember much of that hits him.

The letter is reread a few times over, he scratches out some passages and alters some others, before settling with his legs crossed at his makeshift desk. With a practiced hand he writes her name, _Lady Adeline_ , and stutters when he starts to curl into the B of Baroulx. She could have married, he understands that it’s an outcome of being absent for so many years. But the original letter was started years ago, when he hadn’t been thinking about marriages and the passage of time. Rather that he had woken up naked near Honnleath, accused of being a blood mage by a few guards, and locked up until a templar could arrive. They had him down as an unfortunate lyrium-addled victim, gave him a set of clothes and sent him on his way.

There’s a trail from that moment for about eight months or so until he was employed by the Piss Merchant. He became a ghost after that. Documents were ruined or misplaced, people who claimed to have evidence of seeing him were never truly believed, and if anyone started looking they’d soon find themselves at an unmarked grave in the depths of the Brecilian Forest. There was a nobleman in that grave, decayed over time, but he had died on an order to bring new life to No One.

No One remembers the Piss Merchant saying something about the poetic side of it. How new life can come from death, but all he could think of back then was that he should have died, so what new life had he been given at the death of another? He understands the complexity now, as the years have gone by and the words have haunted him. Perhaps his death back then would have breathed a new life into the Baroulxs, perhaps it had given Adeline a better chance at living. But it had been wasted on him.

He breathes out heavily and crawls from his home, making sure his letter is securely in hand and his blanket it up over his head to stave off the lingering moonlight. No One holds the paper between his lips as he creates a small structure in the fire pit, piling small twigs into a pyre to help it take flame when he carefully throws in a match. The flames curl in front of him, fighting back against the freezing mountain air, burning steadily in the night. Smoke fills his lungs as he relaxes beside the fire, almost suffocating, he thinks, as he wafts it from his mouth. The letter rests in his hands, gripped gently between damaged fingers.

“I do not forget you, sweet Adeline.” He whispers, bringing the paper to his lips. The letter is thrown in, blackening under the heat and splintering until it becomes ashes. “But you do not deserve the atrocities of the man I was, I would rather you see me as the man I want to become.” Anxiety grips him rather than the sense of relief he was expecting. It was the way of Orlais to lie and to keep secrets hidden in plain sight, and he couldn’t decide whether he was returning to who he used to be or straying further away.

He hoped that if he had the chance of seeing Adeline again she wouldn’t be ashamed of him. To be seen in good graces by her would mean the world, with the steps that he is making with Thom it fills him with a hope that he may see her one day. If Thom, who was once a stranger, could find the decent side to him, surely she could too. 

No One deposits the rest of his old letters into the fire as the night goes on. Reading them all and setting them to burn, he doesn’t have many but it takes him through a few hours. He keeps the note he received from Thom all those months ago in his hand, a little message about rope after he had drunkenly asked for it. He traces the lettering and hums deep in his chest, how things had changed for them both. His writing wasn’t as bad as he made out, the bulky shapes of trade tongue really wasn’t comparable to the eccentric swirls of Orlesian scripture by any means. No One had learnt both of them at a young age, as many noble Orlesians had. He tosses the letter into the fire when he spots the gargantuan height of Cousland sweeping across the battlements.

The Warden Commander is dressed in his white hunting leathers, though his gait doesn’t show any signs of fatigue the redness in his eyes tells of the hours he had spent awake. He’s remarkably graceful as he steps over the crumbling patch of the ramparts, almost as if he had done it before. The thought brings a frown under No One’s skin but he smooths it away with a practised ease before it forms across his brow. Surely, he would have noticed if someone had been going through his things.

“Chevalier,” Comes the tainted voice, “burning letters, are we?” He slips down the short ladder with a similar grace and stands where he falls, arms limp by his side and back hunched, almost as if he’s asking for permission to be there. An odd thought considering his titles.

“Are you?” No One mocks, sagging in his seat and grabbing a near empty bottle by the neck.

“How is the boy?”

“He doesn’t do anything.” No One pauses, throwing a log onto the fire and watching the sparks ascend with the flames. “Is he yours?” No One says and glances up, his grip loose on the bottle so he can turn it from a drink into a weapon in a second. He doesn’t know if he’ll need to, but he knows the man is without his loyal dogs at hand which gives him an advantage he didn’t have before.

“I remember you saying I’ve been, what was it exactly? _Fucking the man who tried to kill me for the last_ _decade_ , why would I sleep with that witch?” Andrastopher says, tugging away the whitened hood, and pulling the lengthy braid from beneath his clothes. It’s an odd thing for a nobleman to have, but he was no more a nobleman than No One was anymore.

“People stray.” He points out with a shrug. Affairs had become a currency in Orlais, when they were true and when they were not, they were the weapons upon tongues in the mouths of lions.

“I don’t.” Andrastopher says sharply. Loyalty, No One thinks, the Warden Commander is loyal, or guilty. But loyalty to the wrong kind of men breeds crimes and ill-made justice, which makes him more likely to be guilty of something in his lifetime that remains hidden to the masses.

“So why watch him? He’s just-”

“Just a boy.” He scoffs before No One can finish his sentence, he takes a seat beside the fire and unwinds the scarf from the lower half of his face and neck. He tangles it in his hands and breathes warmth into the air around him. It reveals the length of red ink that runs deeper than the thin tunic and low-cut leather he’s wearing, and the edges of a blush caused by the cold in the wind and the heat of the flames. He looks more human than he ever had before, and it’s a little unnerving. “ _Just a boy_ , as if it makes any difference. The witch used to lure unsuspecting Templars into the woods as a child, her mother made it a game for her, though the soldiers who followed her would most likely die. But she was _just a girl_ , wasn’t she?”

“Children don’t inherit their parents’ crimes.” No One says, the wiser meaning of his words not lost on his own predicament. Adeline isn’t condemnable for his crimes, so long as he remains unbeknownst to all as her father. Maxime hadn’t any crimes passed those that Orlais was built on, so she was virtuous if only for her grandfather. Her mother wasn’t to bear thinking about.

“No, but they fear it all the same.” Andrastopher adds. “He is not my son, though he is the child of a fellow Warden.”

“Ah,” No One murmurs, “he’s a _prince_.” There were only a few Grey Wardens in Ferelden around the time that Kieran must have been conceived, or that is what the majority of the books stated. If it wasn’t Cousland, then the boy was a Theirin or a Mac Tir, or the Warden Commander was lying. But why else would the boy wear a token of the order? It was too much of a coincidence to be anything but the truth.

“I do not like the King of Ferelden,” No One interrupts the man with an honest snort of laughter at the admission, “but he was the best choice at hand. Kieran is a threat to his command, and a threat to his unborn child.” Andrastopher had once thought about taking the throne for himself, indeed he had promised Anora that if she did not wed Alistair then she would have to marry him. It was a threat she did not take lightly, though she conceded in the end. Married to Alistair was better than dead alongside her father.

He had mapped everything out even back then, Alistair would take the throne with or without Anora, and if she refused then she would be executed alongside Loghain. If Alistair refused to wear the crown with Anora at his side then Andrastopher would, and both royals had to agree they would rather see the throne empty than with Cousland reigning. They thought him cruel and lacking in loyalty to his home country, yet despite this he moved to become the ruler of both Amaranthine and Gwaren, with his brother taking over and ruling in Highever. But he admitted that he would hold far too much power if he became Prince of Ferelden, which would lead to a lack of trust between him and the rest of the country.

Conscripting Loghain hadn’t been one of his original paths, but it had been an accident which worked out rather well in the end. Even if the man had so recently perished. Andrastopher had originally come to Skyhold to gather the Warden’s things before personally escorting them to the Fereldan castle; it would be insulting and endearing, with as many endings mapped out as he could think of. He also had a respect for him despite what had happened, and it would be fitting to officially retire him from the order as he had been the one to induct him.

“Youth beats bastardry.” No One says, thumb flicking in and out of the bottle. The wet whistling sound grinds in Andrastopher’s mouth but he swallows the irritation as he had been taught, and continues in his direction.

“Kieran is not _Alistair’s_ bastard, he is the Queen’s half-brother.” He folds the scarf in his hands to look nervous, picking out the fading stars in the sky to glance at before taking his gaze back to the chevalier.

“That’s,” he inhales deeply, exhaling in a rush as he leans back, “unexpected. Why are you telling me this?”

“Because I want him watched.”

“I’m already watching him.” No One scoffs, swallowing the remainder of the bottle though keeping it in hand. He stops the movement of his thumb when it doesn’t provoke the reaction he wanted.

“Not _properly_. The Inquisition thinks you’re watching Morrigan, a blessing if you will.” Andrastopher shrugs with the barest hint of a lift in his shoulders. Blessings didn’t exist to the Qunari, not like it did to the Andrastians, but he hadn’t believed in them back when he was a child either.

“Maybe that was my intention.” He snorts, lying.

“It’s more eyes on you, Chevalier.” Andrastopher states, throwing the scarf over his shoulders as he stands. He notices the slight falter in the chevalier’s frame. It doesn’t occur with the word any longer, he realises, but rather it’s a fear of being caught not he fear of being who he is. It’s an expected change, though he hadn’t predicted it to happen so soon.

“How did you know they thought I was watching the mother?” He asks, much smarter than he had let on before.

“The men who once tried to kill me taught me a lot about assassination and it’s build up, I learnt a lot about listening to the right conversations.” Andrastopher sniffs, rolling out his shoulders before hunching over again, turning back to the blonde. “Not least from the one I fell in love with.” He climbs the ladder with a neat efficiency, leaving without a farewell, and makes his way back around the ramparts until No One can no longer see him.

Andrastopher keeps the truth to himself; The Iron Bull was not the only spy that the Qunari had placed within the Inquisition and he had enough of a rank to know who was moving where. He was not naïve enough to believe that he knew the location of every spy in the fortress. No doubt some knew of Andrastopher’s status as Tallis, though everyone else would know him as the Warden Commander, which aided him greatly as the Arishok had predicted. The main reason he had requested the tavern room was because of its proximity to The Iron Bull, the Hissrad who had abandoned the Qun, and to test the boundaries of his loyalty to the Inquisition. For now, he had heard nothing about himself which spoke leagues about the Tal-Vashoth tongue.

He thinks fondly for a moment about Zevran, the man who tried to kill him but instead slipped deep into his bed and his heart. They had parted ways in Gwaren months ago, they both had different missions to complete before they would find themselves together in the Ferelden castle, paying their respects to the Queen’s deceased father, and giving their blessings to the unborn heir of the throne. He awaits the day eagerly.

No One tries to imagine the Warden Commander in love, with his stoic face and grave tendencies. It’s awkward in his mind. Especially with his lanky frame and too long hair, he can’t imagine what the man he fell in love with would look like; most likely he’d be as odd looking as him. The Piss Merchant might bring him something on his lover when he gets around to delivering the message properly, it would be an interesting thing to know regardless of what else he may learn.

No One folds the Forgone, -D letter carefully, ensuring it’s small enough to slip into the scout’s pocket without drawing too much attention, and slides it under the cuff of his sleeve. It’s too loose to stay there so he has to slip it half into one of Thom’s gloves to ensure it keeps itself safe until he can pass it on. The whole idea is risky, No One hasn’t ever needed information on someone like this before, but it would be worth it in the end if it could get the Warden Commander off his scent.

Thom wakes when the sun reaches through the slim gap in the heavy curtains, the faded touch of pleasant dreams dragging down across his body in the shape of a calloused palm. He pushes up the edges of his nightgown and presses his hand into his underthings, the lingering warmth bringing a familiar swell to his cock. It’s easy to imagine No One’s mouth on his own, the warm metallic tang of iron teeth against his tongue, a faint sense of lyrium between his lips.

Last night he had pulled him against him, the leaning weight of No One through the padded layers of clothes he wore, he remembers it intensely. Thom sighs breathily, taking himself in hand, slowly stroking himself at the thought of No One on top of him. So light but still enough pressure to sink into him, to sink into the bedsheets around him. With legs too skinny, marred with scars, digging into his sides as he straddles his hips. His mind falters when he strokes over No One’s hips and around to his arse, it’s the one thing he hasn’t yet seen nor felt. Thom ignores it with an eagerness in his wrist, stroking with firmness and oil in hand.

He runs his fingers through his own chest hair, likening it to No One’s own torso. Thom doesn’t have the ripple of visible ribs or the bald scar that runs a length through his chest, but it loses out against a lust soaked mind. His hand trails up, caressing against his own neck as No One would, tangling into his own hair and gripping it in his fist.

Pleasure brews in his gut, his toes curl, his wrist grows lazy in favour of his pivoting elbow. Thom thinks of long blonde hair tickling the skin across his chest as No One bows his head to watch, and how it is ripped away as he arches back, finding his own pleasure sitting on Thom’s cock. He pulls back in his memories, watching No One come undone again and again until he spends himself in his own hand. Brought back into reality of an empty bed and a mess under the sheets.

He waits for a moment, until his chest rises steadily and he can breathe normally through his nose again, before he pulls himself from his bed and cleans up. Thom wants to catch No One before he gets something to break his fast today, he yearns to kiss the man in the early hours of the mornings.

His breath greets him in the courtyard, heavy and warm against the chilled mountain air, ad he turns to see the rise of smoke from No One’s home. The man is already awake, even so early, though Thom imagines the sun breaks through the old Inquisition tarp easier than his own curtains and thickened windows. He whistles as he climbs the battlements, making his steps around them with glee until he finds himself waving at the blonde beside the fire. His iron teeth alight and shining beside the flames, with a hand raised in return he stands to help Thom down the ladder when he gets there.

“I didn’t realise you were so eager to have me write this letter.” No One laughs gently, reclaiming his seat and patting the crate beside him for Thom.

“Something to eat first?” He offers, extending his hand to the other man instead of sitting. It’s a chivalrous action that No One hasn’t been offered before in this kind of context, and for a moment he is stunned. Usually it had been him offering his palm to a young woman amidst the balls and soirees, he wasn’t handsome enough for it to happen the other way around. Though he can remember Luci being approached by a woman like this, he and Armel had never let him live it down. Undeniably he feels a rush when he gently takes Thom’s hand, he doesn’t use it to pull himself up but rather lets his palm linger in the other man’s and stands entirely on his own.

“I thought I was needed sober?” He asks.

“Food, not _whiskey_ , you bloody fool.” Thom laughs, clapping his hand on No One’s shoulder in a half-made reprimand. He knows the other man drinks a fair bit each day, but it’s a lot less than what he used to when they had first met each other. That’s was Cabot and his tab tell him when he pays it off each week. Thom was more worried about what the drink was doing to No One’s insides rather than the coin he had been spending.

“It’s the same thing, sometimes.” No One shrugs and gestures Thom up the ladder, it’s hard to let go of his palm but he concedes the battle. Walking hand in hand could be played up to be as scandalous as an affair in Orlais, and it’s hard to let go of all of the little lessons he had been taught in his youth. Yet, there’s little else he would rather do than to grab Thom’s hand in his own, damned be his scabbing fingers. “What am I supposed to write then?”

“I’m,” Thom pauses and his frame slumps, “I haven’t figured that out yet.” He shrugs.

“Hah. I’m an awful scribe, just so you know.” He says, making his way across the rubble before offering his hand to Thom. It would have been smarter to clasp at one another’s wrists to help him climb the last few steps of the broken ramparts, but the strong grip in his own was made with intent, and No One didn’t let it slip passed him.

“I’ve never really written a letter to a noble before, I’ve never needed to.” He says, pulling them towards the tavern. No One’s heart beats in his throat as they walk together, and he’s thankful for his need to wear Thom’s gloves; if only because he can feel his palms begin to sweat in a kind of first-courting fashion.

 “I thought you had chevalier friends?” He clears his throat.

“They’re soldiers before anything else.” Thom offers, his voice raising in a slight question. No one would know more about the chevaliers than Thom ever could, but the few that he had made friends with were very relaxed about the whole idea of the order. Most chevaliers were younger siblings and distant branches, so being noble wasn’t too much of a point of pride to them, though No One had been a rare exception as the first born and the heir.

“Trevelyan’s a soldier, isn’t he?”

“He’s more of a lord, he _wants_ to be a soldier.” He says as they push through the tavern door. Thom has to let go of No One’s hand as they enter, it houses too much of the morning crowd to navigate side by side. They manage to grab a recently vacated table, No One sliding in with ease and spreading himself out to claim the whole area. He hasn’t so many friends that anyone will attempt to sit beside him regardless, but the effort he goes to by spreading his thighs is something that brings other images to Thom’s mind.

He orders two bowls of pottage and a wedge of bread to share, and asks Cabot if there’s anything that’ll keep them both sober for the time being. He realises it’s an odd thing to ask in the only tavern in Skyhold, yet Cabot comes back with a pot of tea, and a gruff explanation about how _that Warden Commander_ prefers the flowery water over a proper drink. Thom piles their morning meal onto a tray and carries it through the room, having to squeeze through a few others before he can relinquish No One from defending their table.

“I’m sure he’d appreciate a soldier’s hand over my scripture then, Thom, not that I’m saying I won’t write it, just…” No One shrugs, he pulls out his iron teeth with a flinch and begins to soak his half of the bread, “I found an old note from you earlier, that fact that I knew you had written it gave it meaning.”

“You just want whiskey in the morning.” Thom laughs.

“I’m being _honest_ ,” he urges, stopping the food halfway to his mouth and dropping it back into the bowl, “and, I’d like it if you wrote letters to me, perhaps, I mean, just whilst you’re away in the Emprise. You don’t have to, if it’s too much bother.” He reaches across the short distance and takes his hand in his own, hoping to convey what he truly wants to in a single touch in a crowded room. Sweating palms and a stammering tongue; embarrassing and far too telling.

“No One-”

“It’d mean a lot to me, if you did, and-” He continues, pressing on and hoping Thom’s next words weren’t a refusal.

“-I will, _always_.”

“Thom.” No One breathes, a swell forming in his chest that he struggles to swallow down. A smile breaks out over his lips that he attempts to hide with the clearing of his throat. He pulls his hand back and fishes the sopping bread from his pottage with the cutting knife, trying to chew away the growing grin across his face.

“I’ll write the letter to Fulton, I’m sure he’ll forgive me for a few ink smudges.” Thom offers, digging into his own food and fighting his own smile.

“He’s a shallow man if he’s so bothered.” No One states, his mouth half full, with more going in. “My brother can’t spell, something in his head which makes him write letters backwards, or in the wrong order.” He offers as way of an explanation. No One can remember how people would complain about sloppy writing, or the ridicule some faced when they read their letters aloud wrong.

“Oh?”

“When we were younger, we always thought it was a childish quirk. Our nanny used to smack his fingers when he got things wrong but he never learnt anyway.” A cruel woman, he thinks, but she came recommended from a friend. She had a good reputation for bringing children back into line, but the sweet persona she draped herself in fell away when she was alone with the children. Making them behave properly wasn’t something only achievable through violence, though it was the method she preferred. “I was twelve, maybe, and I caught a few older kids teasing him for it.”

“What happened?” Thom asked. Armel had been a short way away from the chantry, pulling out tufts of grass between fat fingers and throwing them with as much violence as a small child could manage. The kids who approached him were larger than them both, older for the small hairs scattering their upper lips, and had clothes made from less expensive fabrics. No One hadn’t even thought there was any danger back then, he had just walked up to his brother. He had believed that his status and money would have protected him, he hadn’t been taught any different, and regardless of the size of their estates he had heard arguments when his father had simply waved his title and won.

“I got beaten up,” No One laughs, “turns out it was more fun to smack me around than to bully him. I took a few beatings for Armel, but it was worth it.”

“That was good of you, to defend him.” Thom says, pushing his food around in his bowl, thinking of the name that No One had just spoken. _Armel_ , No One’s little brother. The scrap of knowledge made him seem more human, with a fond smile and fonder memories in his mind. He doesn’t know whether No One meant to let the name slip, he doesn’t even know if No One has realised what he’s just said. But if he did, it’s something massive for the blonde, and Thom won’t draw attention to the possible mishap if he doesn’t have to. He rips a chunk from his bread and offers it to him, No One had already eaten his half.

“He’s my brother. I didn’t have a choice, what kind of man would I have been if I’d just ignored it?” No One soaks the offered bread and sticks it in his mouth, leaning back with the warm bowl in hand ready to devour the remainder of his morning meal.

“You _had_ a choice, and you chose to protect others.” He urges. “It was brave, it was right.” Thom wonders whether he would have done the same thing, for Liddy of course, but he hadn’t stepped in when that dog had been in trouble all those years ago. No One had stepped in when Fulton had attacked him, and he hadn’t even raised his dagger when the men in the tavern had jumped him.

Thom realises that No One isn’t the kind of man to start violence against anyone but himself. He had a decency to him, a drive to defend others even when it was at his own peril. It might have frayed over time into a drive to get killed, but it’s roots were still there, a desire to do good by others. No One hadn’t needed to step in between him and Fulton, Thom had even berated him for it, but he must have been doing that sort of thing since he was born. A strange trait for a nobleman, a strange trait for a chevalier, but No One was neither anymore. He almost sounds like the children’s tale version of a true knight.

“Such words.” No One murmurs, his barefoot rising under the table until it hits the inside of Thom’s knee. He curls his toes as he drags his foot back down, hooking them into the edge of Thom’s boot. “From such a man.” His foot is lowered until it gently hits the floor, resting between Thom’s own as they finish their meal.

In his chambers, Goddard sits at his desk, his fingers still as he attempts to respond to the few letters that require his personal hand. He can’t focus for the task he will soon face. Leliana had told him that Duke Maxime Baroulx would be arriving within the next three days, and he had yet to tell his wife.

The news of Lei had hit Yetta hard, bringing old memories to the forefront of her mind in a vicious turmoil. She hadn’t grilled her husband on every detail of the woman who stole him away, back then she hadn’t wanted to know what kind of woman could seduce her husband into bed. But the news of the other woman’s son had twisted the need to know into the only thing she could think of.

“Tell me about her.” Yetta said, her fingers barely gracing the spine of a book.

“Pardon?” Goddard abandons the letters and the ink that has begun to stain his fingers to look over at his wife. She looks as elegant as ever, ready for the day in a purple high-collared dress made from the finest fabric and by the best tailors. Her makeup is perfected, her hair is tied to the fashions of today’s Free Marches, and her golden jewellery is light in comparison to the heavy embroidery she wears. She looks as beautiful as she had done they day they wed, age hadn’t hurt her one bit.

“This boy’s mother.” She turns to him, all of her etiquette schooling crumbling to become her last line of defence. “I didn’t ask all of those years go because I didn’t want to know. But now, now I want to be prepared to face this child.”

“Yetta, are you sure?” He stands from his desk to step beside her, a hand lingering to touch her shoulder in kindness. He doesn’t want her to ask, he doesn’t want to risk letting them slip into the emptiness that held them for seven years. There’s no doubt in his mind he would spend eternity making up for his mistakes, but he is old, and he doesn’t know how long he will live to make up for everything he had done.

“Tell me.”

“Please do not mistake my memory for fondness.” Goddard whispers. “She was Dalish, too young for a man my age, dark skin, dark eyes, dark hair, she had the height of a dwarf.” He remembers when he caught her leaving food for him, she had been so fierce in her defence when he grabbed her. The first thing he said to her was an apology, in an odd coincidence the last thing had been too.

“Her name?” Yetta turned to face him, abandoning the titles she wasn’t truly reading. She knew it didn’t matter if she as ready to hear this or not, she knew she had to, or else she would be caught unawares when the boy finally turned up to see them. Her husband wasn’t the kind of man that left people behind, there was little chance he could ever leave his own son behind.

“Telithaleira, she asked me to call her Litha.” He said.

“Did you?” It hurt more than she thought it would. This woman, this Telithaleira didn’t just have a name, she had the kind of pet-name that Yetta never could.

“Yes.” He whispers.

“Does this boy look like her?”

“I’ve been told her looks more like me.” Goddard says, straying from the truth. Lei does look remarkably like his mother, he had recognised him the moment he saw him back in the Fallow Mire, but Varric had only commented on how strange it was that nobody had made the connection between him and the soldier. When they stood side by side, their likeness was undeniable.

“Does he look like her?” She repeats, sterner.

“Yes.” He admits. Goddard would gain nothing from lying to her, and nothing from keeping the truth hidden. Yetta remains silent for a moment, unflinching, her guard rearing high before she calms the anxiety rising up her spine.

“Is she _the guest_?” She says unwavering.

“The guest? Goddard repeats in confusion, his mind reeling for answers when her brow begins to wrinkle. “No, no that’s, that’s someone else. It has nothing to do with her, I promise you, Yetta.” He gently grabs her hand, loose enough that she may pull away if she deems it so.

“So, who is it?”

“A duke.”

“You’re being vague.” She scowls.

“He’s the brother of Florent Baroulx, the man from my youth. He’ll be here in a few days, I wanted to see how he was doing after all these years.” He says, gently squeezing Yetta’s hand in his own, patting it in loving reassurance. Though he doesn’t know whether he is comforting his own nerves or hers. “I haven’t ever been able to find him before meeting Leliana, but he hasn’t been seen in decades, so, she contacted Duke Maxime for any information he may have.”

“You should have told me.” Yetta whispers. She knew of the lover that Goddard had taken in his youth, it had been a persistent rumour that a so-called friend reminded her of often. It had taken her months to approach the subject, too afraid of her friend being correct in her predictions. But her husband had answered honestly, face to face instead of over the dozens of letters they sent between them, and he had dispelled all of the fears that she held that day.

“I should have, I planned to, but with Lei, the boy, it never seemed like there was a good opportunity.” He admits shamefully. “With Fulton returning home, and with Wakefield’s passing. I, I simply…”

“Goddard.” She sighs, cupping the side of his unshaven jaw.

“If you do not want Lei as a member of this family I will deny that he is my son.” He says it with a heavy heart. It is not his wish to abandon the son he has only just met, but he will always put Yetta first. It had been part of his promises to her on the first day of their marriage.

“Fulton will forgive you, just as I have.” She smiles, folding her hands in her own. Fulton had always had a flare of temper about him, something that made him too expressive and energetic in his action, Yetta loved him for it. Their children had not been old enough to understand what had been happening to her and Goddard, and she knew the anger she felt would seep into them and poison the thoughts of their father. She would not allow anything to hurt them, even if it meant her own heart would shatter in her chest to protect them.

Goddard doesn’t let her reluctance to give a straight answer slip by him. He won’t force her to do anything she doesn’t want to, and although it would haunt him until the end of his days, he would deny Lei a place in his family if it’s what she wanted. He could convince himself it would be the right thing to do, it would be built entirely of lies and he might always wonder what the boy could be if he became his son. But he would do anything for her.

“I pray you are right.” Goddard offers sadly.

“I always am.” Yetta laughs. She adjusts her outfit one last time before turning to descend the stairs, she wasn’t the Inquisitor but that didn’t mean she was without her duties in the fortress. Several appointments with allies awaited her, and she would grace them with tales of her husband’s heroics through the hours.

“I love you, Yetta.”

“And I, you. The day awaits us.” She lets her smile brighten her face, the sentiment still made her chest flutter after all these years.

“Let us hide from the world today,” Goddard pleads earnestly, “stay here and lock the doors.”

“War does not wait for the love of men, isn’t that what you told me once?” She picks up her skirts before she descends the steps, unlocking their chamber doors and seeing herself out into Skyhold. He doesn’t tell her those were Florent’s words, said to him under his bedsheets the first time they lay together. Wise words from the mouth of a lion. 

Goddard can remember it fondly, that first time, _his_ first time. Sex wasn’t something he had ever given that much thought; fumbling around naked with another like that, he wasn’t exactly sure what he would do. He couldn’t see the appeal in such a thing. His friends at the time had all boasted different stories, laughing and teasing when he went red in the face and had no tales of which to tell. They had tried to put him together with a girl named Merry, but that had been a painful experience to watch, or so he had been told after.

But Florent had been kind, he had kissed him gently, his moustache tickling Goddard’s lips. A hand curled around his jaw, leading the dance. He was sure the seventeen-year-old boy he was then was inexperienced and dreadful, but Florent kissed him again, a smile upon his wetted lips. He lavished him with praise, denying the words that Goddard’s friend had uttered to him. His jaw wasn’t too large, nor were his ears, his teeth as crooked and separated as they were, weren’t anything to be ashamed of. Florent motioned to his own lantern-jaw, the strong point of his nose, the wrinkles forming around his eyes that come for every man.

Goddard thought he was beautiful. When they carefully snuck into his bedchambers that day, neither of them willing to practice as usual, Goddard had thought him more beautiful than ever. Skin which bore heavy tan lines, freckles blooming across his back. No scars upon his torso, he had discovered with tentative fingers, but hair like no other. Florent had removed his own breeches with little grace, kicking them to one side and clambering over Goddard with a flurry of lust, albeit one strongly returned.

He had been nervous, unsure of what to do with his gangly limbs. But Florent had linked their fingers, kissing him heavily, directing his hands to travel the length of his torso, over his arse, down into the juncture of his legs. Goddard had been distracted for a moment, not by the length that Florent had, but the knotted scar he could feel across his thigh. The memories of a lancing tourney that had almost killed him. He felt embarrassed, bringing attention to something so unsightly, but Florent had laughed it away.

“I cannot hate it,” he whispered, his Orlesian tongue heavy with arousal, his lips and teeth hard against Goddard’s neck, “it brought me here, to you.” Florent hitched his own leg up then, bringing Goddard’s hand to the other side. The scar was smaller, the lance having gone all the way through the meat of his thigh, but it was no less protruding.

“Did it hurt?” He had asked, for lack of anything else to say. It made him feel stupid for a moment, but that was banished with Florent’s lips.

“I’d pray you’d never feel such a thing,” He says, cupping Goddard’s jaw to look into his eyes. He kisses him again, softer this time, more loving than lusting. Whispering gently against his mouth, “I’d pray that if ever you did, I would be there.”

“I’d like that.” Goddard swallows, his throat swelling with the air trapped in his lungs. Florent kisses him again, trailing his lips across his jaw and down his neck, beyond the expanse of his chest and gut. Deft fingers pulling at the laces of his breeches, slipping them down with dexterity and kissing Goddard’s sex so carefully. As if his cock was fragile. Florent’s tongue was kind and wet, the latter far more pleasurable, he was tasting such intimate parts, which had only ever been graced by Goddard’s own hands.

It makes him moan aloud, his fingers and toes curling into his bedsheets, his head thrown back and his legs tensing. Florent swallows his cock so perfectly, with wet lips and an explorative tongue. He forgets about his own limbs, he forgets about whatever he’s supposed to do with them, and falls deeper and deeper into whatever Florent is doing to him. Bringing him closer and closer to euphoria.

He can only hear the blood rushing into his ears, hypersensitive to the sound of rustling sheets, of Florent’s laborious breathing, the moans that echo along the length of his cock. Goddard releases the sheets to grab the muscles that make up his lover’s shoulders, squeezing tightly as his thighs tense and his loins are set alight. Florent swallows with such grace, his nose pressed against the tightening coil that is Goddard’s gut.

It hadn’t lasted long, he knew that much, but in the face of such pleasure who could blame him. Florent had kissed him after, tasting odd and unusual, but he couldn’t deny it was perfect. Goddard, had flipped them, clumsily, and the other man had allowed him to do so. Settling the young lord onto his lap, his length pressing against Goddard’s own softening sex. Florent stops Goddard from mimicking his movements, instead, he pressed their cocks together, encouraging him the feel them with only his hands for the moment. He believed they had all the time in the world, and he wouldn’t fill it with inexperienced fumbling attempts to reciprocate. That wasn’t what sex was about, it wasn’t what he and Goddard were.

Goddard swallowed thickly around the memories. Things were so much simpler before, everything had faded away when he had been alone with Florent. So much so that they became reckless and uncaring, they had kissed in the gardens, stood too close when they walked. It had become fanciful rumour before Goddard could refute anything. It was impossible to deny when he had been riding Florent, his head thrown back in red-faced pleasure, when his father had seen them both. He had seen everything and more.

Reluctantly No One had managed to convince Thom to write his letter without him present, it made for sense for the letter to be solely from him after all, and No One thought his input might be distracting to a certain degree. Feeling the other man under the table had been a risqué decision that he hadn’t thought about at the time. It had only been a glance off the knee, and he can remember times where Thom’s hand had been inches from his cock. Though it had never been as sexually motivated as it had been earlier.

He decides that he won’t push Thom any further until they’re both back from their retrospective missions. It should make it all the more sweeter when he does fall into bed with Thom, and there’s no doubt in his mind that it is something he definitely wants to do sooner or later. He’s thought of the act a few times over in various amount of detail, pressing into himself with vigour and desire. But when he thinks about it, not in the privacy of his own home, it brings a swell of anxiety to his gut. If only because he hasn’t truly felt something like this for someone ever before, and when he searches for something comparable he finds nothing but vas emptiness.

The scout he’s looking for walks passed him slow enough for No One to give him his message, and within a moment he knows his actions can’t be undone. A fear brings him to think that perhaps he was making a mistake in doing this, but he didn’t have a choice, working for the Warden Commander for however long wasn’t an option for him. Not if he wanted to shed his past and become someone new alongside Thom.

No One thinks about the deal he had made with Cousland, thinking harder now he knows more about why he’s being made to do this. He can’t help but imagine that the Warden Commander’s politics had some similarities to those in Orlais. He might hate the King of Ferelden, a man who is rather well loved if you listen to the rumours, but he still intends to see the king’s son on the throne and not some bastard. Or, he wonders, if it’s not about that at all. If it’s just making sure Anora’s child takes the throne and not Morrigan’s.

Which means, what exactly? That Andrastopher had just spun wool around his eyes until he was blind enough to be convinced? No One bites his tongue, irritated that he had been taken for a fool this morning. Gathering information on him was a good idea, he reminds himself, it’s the wisest choice he has.

Thom passes along his written letter to Twyla, and she happily assures him it’ll get to Fulton with the rest of their letters. They’ll all be sent to the estate where her daughter is staying, Fulton had promised to check in on her before returning to his wife as a favour to his sister. She was awfully paranoid that something was happening that Gylda hadn’t told her about, though she had been repeatedly assured it was just a long absence.

The letter had taken him a few hours, and despite what No One had told him earlier, he had made the attempt to write it as neatly as possible. Even going as far as to rewrite it once he had figured out exactly how he wanted to reply to the noble. The blonde had proved to be more of a distraction than he had told Thom he would be. His mind had wandered multiple times to the feeling of No One grazing the inside of his leg, and he had paced a few times just to clear his mind. Though as soon as the letter was delivered he found him in the gardens, talking to a chantry sister who’s smile sang of a fondness for him. He doesn’t feel as if he shouldn’t intrude, but jealousy is an evil seed. Thom begins to feel awkward as he walks over, knowing that the Sister has spotted him already.

“May I help you?” She stands and clasps her hands together in front of herself. Her smile doesn’t fade, and it makes him feel like a bit of an idiot for being envious.

“I’m here for…” Thom says, thumbing at No One discreetly. With the names that No One is fond of reeling off, he’s sure that the sister won’t know him as No One.

“Is Brother Eustace in trouble?” She turns to him, her brows creasing in worry.

“No, Sister Nelda” No One laughs gently, “he is here for… other reasons.” He reaches for Thom’s hand, taking it in his own with upturned lips and a squint in the afternoon sun. It brings a shudder to Thom’s spine and he returns his grip, chewing the tip of his tongue to hide his growing joy.

“Oh, I see. Forgive me, I know many who do not look favourably upon Eustace. Even some of the Sisters do not approve of his presence, over time I have learnt to be defensive him.” She admits, embarrassment staining her cheeks. Thom hopes it is because of her unnecessary jump to No One’s defence and not because of the hand in his own.

“You’re not the only one. Thom has come to mean more than most to me.” No One says, softer than before, and more to Thom than her. It’s a confession of fondness that he takes to heart. He knows he and No One have become something more than they have ever been before, but to hear him say it made his chest bloom.

“Then I shan’t intrude. Enjoy the garden, My Lord, Brother Eustace.” She offers them both a small curtsey, before she walks away. Nelda carefully glances back, just to make sure that Brother Eustace wasn’t just removing her from a dangerous situation. But she feels comforted when they sit down together, closer than acquaintances would, but not close enough to convey a threat or a hidden blade.

“ _Brother Eustace_?” Thom asks, hiding the grin in his voice.

“I took my vows and everything. Though as she said, I didn’t exactly look trustworthy and I couldn’t stay there.” No One runs his thumb across the back of Thom’s hand as he thinks over his memories of the old man whose name he borrowed. Brother Eustace was the one who attempted to enrol him into the chantry he visited when he was younger, but his parents denied him the opportunity. No One remembers standing at his pyre, becoming his vigil until the flames had withered and he had taken his deserved place at the Maker’s side. “I renounced my vows. Sister Nelda is trying to convince me to retake them.”

“Why don’t you?”

“Retake my vows? Of _chastity_?” No One had the gall to look shocked at his suggestion before he slaps Thom’s thigh in jest, with an iron grin plastered between his cheeks. “I never took vows of chastity, Thom, and I wouldn’t want to.” He laughs as he watches the other man’s face flicker though half a dozen expressions.

“Is there a reason for that?” He asks lowly, clutching the hand still resting across his thigh.

“My reasons have changed over time. One day,” No One leans in closer, with half lidded eyes and wet lips, “I might tell you.”


	29. We Are

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: Dubious Consent/Underage is mentioned in this chapter.

Thom had promised to meet No One for the second meal of the day, though from the tailor’s candle clock he could tell that he was already far too late. His outfits for the Emprise du Lion had been made to an exact size, adding few inches to his taken measurements so that they could be adjusted on his person with his input. He was the one who had to wear it whilst swinging a sword after all.

They were in his bed chambers, giving them a decent amount of privacy, with a note on the door to dissuade anyone else from entering. Usually the tailor would have people come to her own shop, unless they spent vast amounts of coin in addition to paying for her travels. She had originally come here on the promise of dressing Madame Vivienne, an honour for all, though she had been snuffed from the job when Madame Vivienne’s personal tailor turned up as well. Her complaints had been kept to herself, even if she had been forced to dress Tevinters and Qunari. This was her chance to outfit members of a holy fraction after all, and this would give her the opportunity to raise her prices and make a stronger name for herself in the world of fashion. All eyes were on the Inquisition and its members for the time being.

“Too tight, Monsieur?” She asked, wincing when he raised his arms and the pins slipped from their position. “Too tight.” She has him lift his arms and stretch after a few more adjustments, trying to keep the garment both fashionable and functional. Thom does try to tell her that most of it won’t be seen under his armour, but she shushes him and grumbles in Orlesian about this idiocy. As if a companion to the Inquisitor could be seen in anything less than the best.

He keeps his eyes trained on the melting candle, counting the minutes at they pass, wondering whether or not No One is still waiting for him in the tavern. She carefully places a few stitches in to hold the fabric together, cautiously taking out all the pins and counting them to make sure none of them remain.

“Remove your shirt please.” She says, her voice cutting through the trailing void of Thom’s mind.

“Please do.” No One whispered from a small crack in the door. For a moment Thom thinks it’s in his mind until the tailor pulls it open with enough force to make the latch cry out, the culprit standing with a grin and his hands resting high on the doorframe. He drums his fingers loudly and sends Thom a closed grin over the tailor’s shoulder.

No One’s hair is damp, his clothes still cling to his skin, and he carries a faint stinging scent of the sludge he puts in his hair. He’s bathed and cleaned himself up, and he looks remarkable. For a moment Thom is stunned, standing there feeling old pin pricks electrifying across his body. _Remarkable_ doesn’t do the man justice.

“This is a private session,” she looks him up and down quickly with a tut under her breath, “and you’re not welcome.”

“Actually, we’re hoping for matching uniforms, I’ve been added to the mission to Sahrnia.” No One says, standing as a soldier with a clear salute pressed against his chest. “Inquisitor’s orders.”

“Monsieur, if you don’t remove yourself I’ll have to call for the guards to have you put in a cell,” She scowls, adding a threat in a harsher tone to ensure he leaves, “for interfering with Inquisition business.”

“He can stay, can’t he? We were supposed to be meeting earlier, I should have said before.” Thom says apologising to No One; the Inquisitor had kept them in the war room for most of the morning going over the status of Sahrnia. Then, Lady Josephine had told him to go straight to his chambers to meet the tailor. It boiled in his gut that they were waiting when the villagers were disappearing consistently every week, and these few days would cost the lives of innocents. He didn’t mind sleeping cold if he could protect others.

“If you believe so, Monsieur.” She tuts, holding the door for No One to slip in. “I’ll assume you’re not actually looking for a new outfit.” She says as she latches the door shut, taking her position in front of Thom once more.

“Me? No.” He shrugs, throwing himself on Thom’s bed and stretching out. He avoids the fabrics carefully laid out on one side, crossing his ankles and sitting up against the headboard, his hands clasped together in his lap in a childlike innocence.

“Then, as I said before we were interrupted, please remove your shirt.” She holds out her hands to take the fabric from him, but Thom falters with No One in the room. He felt the need to peacock himself, to pull the shirt off in the most attractive way he could think of. Is it better to lift from the bottom and pull it over his head or should he grab it from the top of his back and tear it off that way. “Sometime today, I do have others to see.” She scolds. He feels more self-conscious when he hears No One’s snort from behind him, he feels like he’s fifteen and waiting for his first fumble all over again.

Thom tugs it off quickly, turning it the right way out and passing it to the tailor. No One has seen him naked before, so it’s nothing new. But after yesterday, and No One’s admission about his chastity vows or rather his lack of, he felt the need to do _something_. The blonde had pulled himself away with a satisfied smirk across his lips before, teasing him cruelly and continuing to talk as if he hadn’t done anything of the sort. Thom turns to grab his tunic from the end of the bed, pausing when he catches No One’s eye. The man is chewing the inside of his cheek, his thumbs twiddling in his lap, giving him the kind of stare that says more than he should with someone else in the room.

“Breeches next?” No One whispers, grinning at the heat blooming in Thom’s ears. Teasing him again, as if he wasn’t about to have himself felt up by a tailor who wanted to get things perfect. He had some dignity about him regardless of what people thought, and getting an erection whilst being measured wasn’t the thing he had ever thought he would do.

“Another shirt, Monsieur, here.” She says, handing him another bundle of cloth, pins ready at hand. Thom throws his tunic at No One, and turns to slip into the new item, thankful he’ll be allowed to keep his breeches on.

No One realises he should probably be in the gardens again, watching Kieran, something which still remained a dreadfully boring task. But he had waited in the tavern for Thom, until he eventually ended up asking Bull where the man might be, and the chance to catch Thom being prodded and dressed like a child’s toy was too much of an opportunity to pass up. He had spent the morning in the public baths making sure he looked at his best, so he was going to see Thom one way or another. No One couldn’t convince himself he had solely done it so he was fresh for his journey to Lake Calenhad, because he wanted the last day he had with Thom to be one where he was at least slightly more presentable than usual.

He had silently approached Thom’s chambers and carefully unlatched the door, he wanted to take a peek at the tailor before he made any further decisions. She was too young to have dressed him at any point, even so he watched her for a bit just to keep his confidence up. She might have inherited a business from someone who did dress him once, so he had to be cautious. From beyond the door his vision was obscured, but he could make out Thom standing in the middle of the room upon an elevated base, with the woman pinching his clothes tighter until they were exact enough to represent her name.

When she told him to take off his shirt, No One couldn’t help himself. He had been spotted immediately, and that didn’t surprise him, it was the way Thom had looked at him that had stolen his core. It burned through his chest and melted through his spine, he barely had enough time to figure out an excuse before the tailor had finished her sentence. Watching Thom undress and redress, slip into coats and armour and slip out of them once more, it all gave No One the chance to think about, and more importantly ogle, the other man.

 Thom was kinder than No One deserved, he knew that easily. For all the things he had done and the lies he had told, Thom had stuck by him with nothing to gain. No One had never offered him anything he hadn’t given freely to anyone else, but over time Thom had coaxed that out of him, through mutual trust and an understanding empathy. Yet, when No One had given him one of his biggest crimes, of being a chevalier deserter, Thom hadn’t fled. He had stayed with him until he had fallen asleep, he had given up his bed, and spent the night there. Never telling anyone anything that had passed from his lips that night. It had been just over a week, and nothing gave any indication that Thom was going to tell anyone. It wasn’t the worst thing that No One could have told him, but he won’t ever tell anyone what he truly was. Partially because he couldn’t quite explain that to himself, and the answers he was searching for still eluded him.

No One decides that he’ll tell Thom more when he gets the chance. He wants to talk to him before he leaves for Lake Calenhad, to give Thom time to think things over. Whether that’s selfish or not does cross his mind, was it wise to give Thom his secrets before he heads out into a red lyrium wasteland? Would it serve as a distraction to him, would it delay his thoughts and put him in danger? No One doesn’t quite know, but, he thinks, war does not wait for the love of men, and telling Thom was a decision of _sooner_ rather than later.

It's an understandable nervousness that settles in his belly when he rehearses what he wants to say to Thom in his mind. He truly wants Thom to understand the calamity of his status as a chevalier, and how that would affect everything they might have. No One may never be able to tell him his true name, Thom will never meet his family, and he couldn’t court him as he could do if he were still a Baroulx. He scolds himself for that line of thought, he doesn’t believe Thom could be bought for money anymore. Coin didn’t weigh on the man’s mind like it does to others.

The shackles that Andrastopher kept him in, and the Piss Merchant’s leash, they both pulled at No One in ways that he couldn’t explain to Thom. The man couldn’t do anything about the Warden Commander who knew his secret too, and fighting the Piss Monger never ended well. They were the inescapable chains that held him back, and he needed to make sure that Thom knew exactly what he was taking on. Even if he couldn’t tell him the whole story. No One wonders if that particular truth would come out one day, if the pair lasted that long. Would Thom be afraid, disappointed, or would he make the connection to the killings around Skyhold. He squashes the thought venomously, he doesn’t want to think about it anymore.

“That’s all, Monsieur.” The Tailor says, carefully folding Thom’s new clothes so she can properly sew them later. She wants to get at least two of the three men done today so she’ll have more time for adjustments, but she can’t decide whether she wants to suffer the Qunari’s innuendos or the abominable Tevinter fashion.

“Thank you.” Thom nods, helping her pack her things before holding the door open.

“I will make any arrangements with Lady Montilyet if something further is needed.” She curtseys the best she can and takes her leave. No One is still sitting on the bed with his legs stretched out in front of him, looking oddly disquiet. Thom forgoes trying to snatch his tunic back from the man and instead takes a seat beside him, his palm gently settling on No One’s ankle, and his own feet resting on the floor. The weight of him sinking into his own mattress seems to pull No One from his thoughts, a smile making its way to his lips as he comes back to the waking world.

“My shirt.” Thom whispers, holding out a hand to get it back. He watches the heat flicker behind No One’s eyes, and the smile twitch upwards in delight.

“I think I might just keep it.” He shrugs, his voice aloof behind a mischievous grin. Thom realises he could just go and get another shirt, they are in his chambers after all, but he’s not simply trying to get his clothes back now. He lifts his hand slowly, reaching forward, biting his tongue as No One pulls the item further away.

“No One.” Thom scolds lightly.

“ _Thom_.” He mocks. No One leans further back as Thom reaches further over, his weight balancing on his hand, the shirt even farther away. He can only go so far, his weight falling onto his elbow before he’s stretched out on his back, his arm straining to keep the shirt from Thom’s grip. It isn’t hard for Thom to follow the movement, climbing fully on the bed until he’s above the other man. He doesn’t reach for the shirt straight away. Instead he lets his hand trail up No One’s arm, the fabric of his tunic creasing under the pressure. Thom takes a step forward on his knees, keeping himself aloft with one hand bearing his weight, the other curling into the shirt he was chasing.

“Oh.” No One breathes, as if he hadn’t led this minor dance until Thom hovered above him.

“ _Oh_.” Thom mocks in that same fashion that No One had done before. He leans down slowly; his heart unsteady in his chest as No One responds in kind. Thom feels fingers curl around his own through the shirt, and the slide of a knee rising to his side.

His mouth tastes fresher, it takes away the strength of iron and lyrium across his teeth, and there’s something sweeter underneath. He can’t place it but he’s not too worried. It doesn’t matter when No One’s mouth opens in their kiss, forcing Thom to follow him, the lyrium tastes stronger now, and he feels No One’s grip on his hand tighten. Fingers gently curl against his side, gloved fingers that he’d rather not be hidden beneath the cold leather.

Thom pulls away, only slightly, to wet his lips so he can kiss across No One’s jaw. He’s smooth shaven, bar his uneven moustache, and the prickles he had always imagined scratching into his mouth were absent. It doesn’t matter, he thinks, nothing but he and No One matter. His kisses are open mouthed, his tongue and teeth working in tandem to nip across the sharp edge, and to taste the lingering soap which clung to his skin.

The hand falls from his hips, travelling over the curve of his gut and upwards across his chest. No One’s glove is an awkward sensation across his skin, he had always imagined jagged nails tugging at the curling hairs which blossomed over him, not treated leather smooth against him. Though he had heard of people, specifically Orlesians, who were into that sort of thing, he didn’t imagine that No One was one of them.

No One’s huff of laughter cuts through his thoughts, he opens his mouth to answer Thom’s questioning stare, looking down upon him with a grin, and he finds that words have abandoned him. It’s a sight he could get used to; Thom above him, smiling like a fool with red smattering his cheeks. The shirt they were contesting for is given up by No One, using his hand to pull him down upon him. It’s far too easy to get lost within the other man, with his sturdy weight and calloused fingers, he feels like shelter, he feels like safety, and he feels like home.

The thought of how much Thom means to him momentarily stuns him, before his mind takes to remembering the ideas he had before. No One knew he didn’t intend to sleep with Thom without giving him as much information as he possibly could, and he wanted to give him the time to think things over. Which meant he needed to stop this.

“Thom.” He whispers as lips reach his chest. The other man answers with a hum, his tongue gracing the tip of his lengthy scar that lances his torso. “Stop, Thom.” No One almost doesn’t want to say the words. He doesn’t want Thom to stop kissing him, he doesn’t want to stop something he’s wanted for a while now. But there’s a feeling in his gut that’s smothering his arousal. Thom’s not a child, he’s a grown man who can make his own decisions, but it’s No One’s fault if he’s not giving Thom everything he needs to choose. He’s been on the wrong side of that and still it haunts him.

“Did I do something wrong?” He asks, pulling away. Thom slips on his shirt quickly, tugging it over his head in a rush, and stroking fingers back through his hair to smooth the wild strands.

“No, I,” No One bites his tongue, picking at the thread in his gloves, “there are some things about me that I need you to know, before anything goes any further.”

“You don’t have to, if you’re not ready for this,” He carefully takes No One’s hand in his own, stroking the backs of his palms with his thumb, “I can wait.”

“I want to tell you, before you leave for the Emrpise. Before _I_ leave Skyhold.” No admits quietly, sitting up so he’s face to face with Thom.

“What? You’re _leaving_?”

“I have a job near Lake Calenhad.” He says, getting as close to the truth has he can. It was a job near Lake Calenhad; that was no lie. Thom just didn’t need to know it was an assassination contract for a Templar in Kinloch Hold, who had a fondness for spending his time in The Spoiled Princess, and had taken things too far, too many times.

“You’re coming back?” Thom asks, not bothering to hide the gruff desperation in his voice. 

“If you’ll have me.” No One nods. There’s no doubt in his mind that he wants to come back, letting Thom go isn’t something he will ever do gladly. “But this isn’t what I needed to tell you, so don’t tell me that you want me here before I’ve explained what I need to. Please, Thom.” He begs, quick enough to stop Thom from speaking. If the man wants him to stay now but then tells him to go later, it will ruin him. The hope of having something more with Thom, evident enough it’s something they both want, and having it cruelly snatched away, it was too much to bear thinking about.

“You’re coming back.” Thom said again. Damned be whatever No One wants to tell him, he’s not letting him go.

“Meet me on the ramparts tonight? I have to sort some things out first.” No One stands, brushing down his breeches and throwing his druffalo wool over his shoulders.

“I’ve been here before.” Thom chuckles. The last time he had been asked to meet him there he had revealed he was a chevalier, Thom couldn’t imagine something else that the man could harbour like it.

“Then I needn’t worry if you’re coming.” No One chews his lip with a grin. He leans down to press a kiss against Thom’s cheek, an awfully chaste action in comparison to what had almost happened before, but it fills Thom with a warmth he’s starting to become addicted to. No One leaves him with an iron smile, letting Thom fall back on his bed with his head in his hands in an adolescent glee. Despite knowing they were going their separate ways for a time, and curious about the impending conversation, Thom feels full of something incredible. Desire and adoration, an anxiety for the future, nothing truly mattered but No One right now. Even though he knows he should be preparing for the journey to Sahrnia, he doubts the blonde will leave his mind for better or worse.

No One has his own grin stuck to his lips. Now he was alone, his body thundered with his memories of the intimacy just moments before. Though he can feel the tendrils of young affections clawing at him, his rampant thoughts of what he intends on telling Thom overwhelm him. He will speak of Adeline, not her name or how she was raised by his parents, he won’t be able to wrap his lips around how she was conceived but with the right words Thom will understand.

When he was younger, slipping into his Captain’s breeches, she had loved how careful he had been to ensure she wouldn’t carry his child. He hadn’t told her why. The need hadn’t arisen in him to say it; _I have a bastard, conceived so cruelly that I fear having another,_ but his captain was never meant to know so the words hadn’t even formed in his lungs.

No One wants Thom to know why he does things the way he does. Part of his motivation for becoming someone else, someone who was worthy of kindness, was because of Adeline. Desperate was the need he had to see her, even if he would only be granted a minute or less it would be enough. To know she was happy and safe, well-loved and kind. To know that nothing of his foul person had festered inside of her as she grew. It’s a simpering flame of pride that wants to show her that he isn’t the coinless beggar he’s portrayed himself as for the past few years, he doesn’t wish to rectify the former; there are a thousand things worse than being coinless, he simply wants to be someone to her again. But after all these years he doesn’t know if he can still dance to the tune of being her brother.

He finds Caldwell on his rounds of Skyhold, trudging through the snow with a heavy satchel. The elf is sporting a purpled chin and a swell to his cheek, but doesn’t seem to be any worse for wear other than that. No One can feel the seeds of anger rooting in his gut when he finally catches up to the scout, a determination growing in his belly to find out who had done this to him when Caldwell wasn’t deserving of it.

Caldwell explains it’s injuries that he’s sustained in his soldier’s training, apparently blocking is a lot harder than he had originally thought it would be, and he had taken a few blows to the face. Captain Rickan had told him the ones who get hit first learn faster, but he can’t help but feel like he’s being put with the strongest of the group when he’s clearly not ready. Though he does keep that particular thought to himself. No One manages to keep up with Caldwell as he walks through Skyhold handing letters to whoever he needs to, barely being able to stop the man to ask a favour.

“If you could pass along the letters when I return, I’d be extremely grateful.” No One says. A touch of a smile remains on his lips at the expectancy of writing letters to Thom, and receiving them in return.

“I might not even have yours in my pack.” Caldwell points out. He picks out a bundle of wax-sealed letters, flipping through them quickly to ensure they’re all addressed to the same person, before he mentally navigates the fortress to find their chambers.

“He’s going to write them to _you_.”

“I’d open them by mistake if they were addressed to me.” He admits with a shrug, cutting through the kitchens with No One on his heels.

“I’ll ask Thom to make it clear they’re for me.” No One says as they exit the heated room. It smells delicious, they’ve got several meats roasting in preparation for an evening meal, nothing too special. But it’s not hard to see some of the choice cuts being soaked in fine ingredients ready for someone of a higher standard. He imagines it’s his father who’ll be eating the fine slices of whatever is in fashion these days, it’s an odd feeling; seeing his father’s meals in preparation when he hasn’t seen the man himself in eighteen years.

“I don’t understand why he can’t just write them to _you_.” Caldwell huffs, taking the steps two at a time before he can enter the room, alone, and drop the letters off.

“It’s complicated.” He says, hoping that will do for a reason when the next set of letters are pulled from the scout’s satchel.

“Seems like you’re the one who’s making it complicated.”

“Caldwell, I’m really not above begging.” No One admits, adding a strong promise afterwards; “I’d be in your debt.” He’s good with debts if they weren’t made of coin, though he’ll admit there have been a few times where he hasn’t followed through with his half of the deal if the other person wasn’t deserving of it. But Caldwell was kind-hearted and good, No One would return to him whatever he may ask for.

“I don’t want you in my debt, Wystan,” He says with a furrow in his brow, “we’re friends, aren’t we?”

“I’d…” No One stutters. It catches him off-guard, the admittance of friendship, and his first instinct is to run away and hope nothing comes of it. But that’s the old fear in him that speaks, so he squashes it in favour of the brewing optimism which flowers beneath his skin. “I’d like to think so, yes.” The smile that lingers shakily grows into a brighter one, unashamed of the iron teeth he hides behind his lips.

“So, I’ll take your letters, if you’ll answer me something honestly.” Caldwell bargains.

“Anything.” He regrets the word as soon as he hears what the scout wants to know.

“You spoke Dalish to me a while ago, and it’s been on my mind ever since, where did you learn it?” Caldwell stops in the hallway, abandoning his search for the next pack of letters to face the other man. Wystan is a lot cleaner than he was when he first met him, embarrassingly the filth had been a bit of an attractive point for Caldwell, but he can admit he shapes up well. High cheekbones, grey eyes, something etched into the lines of his face that hints he’ll only get better looking with age. “Most humans don’t bother, all Dalish speak Trade or the majority do, so there’s never a need for it.” He coughs out, picking at his satchel strap to distract himself.

“I don’t know.” No One offers.

“Wystan.” He scolds, disappointed in the answer. He lies to himself that he hadn’t expected more, to imagine that the man had once taken such an interest in elven culture to learn the language.

“I really don’t. I spent a lot of time pissed and half of my memory is blank, maybe I slept with someone Dalish who taught me a few choice phrases.” He admits earnestly. It’s a question he’d like the answer to as well, and if he ever finds out he’ll tell the scout. But for now, he has very little to offer on the subject.

“Tel’fenim isn’t something, something like _that_.” Caldwell balks, embarrassed at the notion. He begins to wonder if he had said something when they had slept together, but it’s not the sort of thing he can imagine saying in that capacity.

“I can’t tell you what I don’t know, Caldwell.”

“Tell Ser Rainier I’ll hold his letters for you.” He huffs.

“Caldwell, please, I’d tell you if I-” No One says, urging him to listen, before he is interrupted.

“It’s fine, Wystan it’s fine.” Caldwell says, not bothering to hide the disappointment in his voice. Perhaps they weren’t as good of friends as he had imagined. It’s a sharp twist in his gut when he thinks that Wystan might just be hiding that he knew an elven tongue, as if he was embarrassed of knowing it at all. Some humans were, it was the language of knife-ears after all, and no human wants that kind of blade on their tongue.

Caldwell rounds the corner in an attempt to leave the other man behind quickly, stumbling when he almost walks into The Iron Bull. A man he only knew through the letters he often delivered to the tavern, though not into the hands of the Qunari himself. He knew his letters would be of a higher priority, as he was a known companion to the Inquisitor, and the words would travel with more apt scouts who were capable of defending themselves.

“Bull.” No One says, shocked to see him in such tight corridors. He wonders whether his horns have ever gotten stuck in a slim spot but he banishes the thought quickly.

“Excuse me.” Caldwell whispers, pushing passed Bull and disappearing through the fortress.

“Hey, No One, you haven’t seen Dorian, have you?” The Iron Bull asks, an almost honest cover story slipping from his mouth. He knew the Tevinter was having his clothes tailored this afternoon, and he had spent time making sure he was more perfect than ever for her. Dorian had said something about reputation and Bull had soaked up his words and his nudity.

“Not recently.” He frowns. “Library?” He hums absentmindedly, deflated that the scout had disappeared without giving him a chance to explain himself further. No One thinks he should have just lied about where he learnt Dalish, but it wasn’t as if he could call forward the tongue when he needed it. He doesn’t quite remember speaking it in the first place, figuring out what he had said back then had been as much of a struggle as beginning to understand why he had said it.

“Ah, maybe I missed him on my way here, thanks, big guy.” Bull slaps him on the shoulder as he walks by, delicately navigating the hallways until he can reach the library; and more importantly Red’s section.

Thom finds himself distracted even after No One has been gone a while, he manages to scrape together enough attention to start polishing his armour. He knows it has become more of an attempt to keep up Inquisition appearances, rather than to keep his armour in a proper quality. Blackwall hadn’t kept his armour shining, and only gave it a proper polish when he was meeting with the fancier men and women he might end up recruiting. He admitted there was a much grimier version to the Grey Wardens that Thedas didn’t know about. Nobody wanted to be caught in the bright shining silverlite in the Deep Roads where the barest hint of light might cause a horde to come down upon them. The dings and dents were always prioritised over shining it regardless.

He replays the kiss and more with No One in his mind over and over. Thom can’t quite believe there was a time when he was afraid of kissing the man, too nervous to even try. But by the Maker he was glad he had done it eventually. It’s hard to imagine what No One might wish to tell him later, it had to be something important for him to hold back on their relationship, or was it a courtship? He bites his tongue thinking about the implications, he was supposed to be mature and old and _married_ at forty-six. That’s what his father had explained to him once; Thom might have been slipping through skirts like an autumn’s chill in his youth, but he’d settle down eventually. He had denied it back then, and life had taken a turn for the worse, almost as if it had given up on him. Perhaps No One was assisting Thom just as Thom intended to help No One.

The hours slip by agonisingly, and Thom grows more nervous with every minute. He takes the time to cut away at some of the length in his beard, pulling and shaping it until it comes in two neat prongs. It doesn’t take as long as he thought it would do, so he gives up on delaying himself and grabs his coat to leave.

Thom purchases a bottle of wine from Cabot, paying off the debt that has been tolled up over the last week, and walks towards No One’s home. He can see the plume of smoke rising steadily from the hidden fire pit, and he wonders just how long he has been kept waiting for the second time today.

“Thom, and _guest_.” He grins, when Thom frowns and looks behind him. “Wine.” No One whispers, taking the bottle from Thom and placing it behind the crate he was sitting on. “I wanted to talk to you whilst I was sober. I can lie better when I’m drunk, and I don’t want to lie to you.” He offers as a way of explanation when Thom raises a brow.

“That’s… Thank you.” Thom says, shocked by the sentiment, he wouldn’t have brought the drink if he had known.

“Unless you want a drink?” He reaches for the bottle to hold it aloft. It’s a distraction, a way out for No One, because if Thom is drinking then it gives him a reason to as well, and if he’s drinking then he’s not sober.

“No, if you’re doing this without, then I should too.” Thom shakes his head and takes a seat beside him. He hears the bottle clink against the stone as he replaces it, his reluctance is obvious, and it lends to Thom’s nerves. What could be worse than what he had told him a week ago, surely there is no dishonour that would stand up to that in his eyes.

“I have night terrors.” No One says, he curses himself when it’s not the words he wanted to say. It’s something that Thom would have figured out eventually if they ever spent the night together. “They began a few years ago, I sleepwalk, I fight and I scream, I spent the other day digging in my sleep.” He pulls Thom’s gloves from his hands to reveal the dried skin which had begun to cover the pinks sores across his fingertips. No One had seen Healer Ver earlier, and she had told him the poultice had taken well and he didn’t need them bandaged any longer.

“Maker’s balls.” Thom whispers, grabbing them to look closer at the damage, the reason he kept the gloves on earlier made more sense now. Maybe there’s a chance he isn’t into that sort of thing. “I remember in Val Royeaux you had nightmares, and here in Skyhold you gave me a black eye in one once.”

“I, of course.” He chuckled, he hadn’t cared back then and it had sipped his mind completely. But the dreams were different now, and he’s not so sure that what his waking body does is any better or not.

“This isn’t what I thought you were going to tell me.” Thom admits with a small shrug. He’s not prying for more, but he knows there’s something that No One is avoiding, and he’s willing to give him the chance to have another go at getting whatever it is off his chest.

“Because it’s, it _isn’t_ what I wanted to tell you.” He huffs, disappointed in his own actions. Maybe he’ll just keep telling Thom the truth just to avoid that one truth, and maybe he will piece it together in time. But that was just like lying in a way, by keeping the truth hidden he may as well just lie to make sure Thom never looks for it. “Months ago, I lied to you, and it was such an easy lie back then. But now I… This is difficult.” No One picks up the wine bottle, rolling it in his hands for an easy distraction.

He can remember it; tart and high strung, and infallible _no_ slipping from his lips. But it didn’t stop him from checking twice every time he saw a dark-haired child sprinting passed. He knew it was impossible to see Adeline like that again, she is no longer a child, but the last time he saw her she was.

“You don’t have to tell me.” He reaches over to lay his hand over the bottle, reminding him there’s no pressure in what he’s doing, and everything is his choice right now.

“No, I _do_ , it’s simply a lengthy story.” Another way out, he scolds himself again.

“And we have all night, and tomorrow, and however many days after that.” Thom says. No One draws a staggering breath and places the wine down once more, taking Thom’s hands in his own and running his thumbs across his palms. Neither of them wear gloves, and even with the chill he finds a warmth in Thom’s hands. His fingers still remain a bit sensitive to pressure, but the physical pain is an interruption in his thoughts that he can suffer easily.

“I can’t tell you everything.” He warns him, and it almost serves as a reminder to himself to keep some things hidden away. Not for himself, but for Adeline, he could never forgive himself if he ruined her life too.

“I know.” Thom chuckles, the man reminded him often enough that he was beginning to think it needn’t be said.

“I was enrolled in the Academie when I was fifteen, the average age is a few years older. But children as young as ten have been admitted over the years.” He says, keeping his eyes on their link between their fingers. “I was sent there because of something that happened in my childhood, which would cause scandal and ruin alliances and our family name. I was the heir after all, I had appearances to keep.” The jest comes out flat, and he knows that Thom can sense what he’s doing.

“I know the cruelty of the Grand Game, but to a child.” Thom sighs. It was one of the worst things that came from Orlais, the verbal battles and the alliances; the things that killed dozens over one wrong word or a misstep in a dance. Thom knows all about that side of Orlais, he’d been the one below all the coin throwing getting his hands bloody for a few scraps of gold.

“The details, it’s something I’ve learnt how to deal with and it doesn’t serve anything by bringing it all back up.” He chews his lips and his teeth scratch away some of the dried skin there. Everything about Adeline’s life had hit him when he beheaded that elf in the alienage, it paralyzed him with such a force that he feared magic had struck his core. He should have been torn apart in that back then, instead he threw money at the people who grieved like the foolish nobleman he was. “That isn’t a lie, Thom.”

“I trust you.” He says, clearing the silence that had settled around them.

“But by telling you this, it’s not just playing with my own life, you have to know that. I’m cryptic because my desire to protect her is more than I’ve ever had to protect myself.”

“Her?” Thom quotes, confusion settling between his brows once again. He wonders for a moment whether it’s a wife or a lover that No One has promised to return to. The man doesn’t wear a ring nor does he show any signs of having worn one for an extended amount of time in his life, but it’s still a possibility, and it’s not one that Thom wants to have to fight against.

“The scandal was a pregnancy. The mother was desperate to get out of a marriage that she hadn’t wanted, everyone knew but me and the rest of the children.” No One scrubs his face roughly at the memories that surface. “She led me out to the lake house, it was late in Drakonis so the weather was still kind of cold but she convinced me anyway, and we…” No One trailed off with a shrug. He can remember almost everything in agonising detail, what she said, what she did, the embarrassment of his mother finding him and knowing _exactly_ what had happened. She had been so furious, and at that point in time, No One had thought she was angry with him.

“You have a daughter.” Thom breathes, running a hand through his hair. After everything Thom had suspected No One might tell him tonight, this was not one of the options.

“Everything was so well covered up that she doesn’t even suspect a thing, nobody ever did.” He can remember the extent that his parents had gone to, he remembers being told to stay away from that particular wing of the estate because she was in there. The only thing that had kept his mother back from ripping Adeline’s mother apart was the fact she carried her grandchild. No One can’t help but think that she might have had some sway in her so-called hunting accident.

“She doesn’t know?” Thom balked.

“The two who adopted her hoped it would stay that way, but they could see I was getting too attached. She was my baby girl and I loved her, Thom, I still do.” But as the months went by his parents must have known that brotherly love was turning more paternal by the moment, and they took that away by removing him from their home. He doesn’t hate them for it, he knows it’s the way Orlais works, but Adeline should have the truth or at least have a choice in knowing.

“But, you’ve been hiding for eighteen…” Thom’s voice fails him in the blaze that his thoughts were creating. He understands how this is worse, not in his own eyes, but No One had a child who would be a grown woman by now and he had missed out on everything. It hits him harder than anything else ever has.

“I was forced into the Academie to serve as my distraction, I could only ever see her every half year.” But what a time that was, he has so many fond memories, and to spoil them with other thoughts may as well be a sin. “She means more to me than anything else, and she was the _only_ reason I kept going.”

“How old is she now?”

“Twenty, ah, twenty-seven I think.” No One stumbles. He has to think about how much to say, and he catches himself before the lie forms on his tongue. Adeline would be twenty-eight in the next winter, and it’s a brief thought when he thinks about how different things could be.

“Maker’s balls, No One.” Thom says, he can barely believe it himself. He doesn’t get the chance to work out the numbers before No One tells him, but he knows it’s too young for the blonde to be a father at any rate.

“I was thirteen, Thom, thirteen fucking years old.”

“You were just a child yourself.”

“That’s the part I don’t want to talk about.” He chokes. “But I thought you should know before anything else happens. I’m a coinless deserter, a useless father, a murderer by all accounts, I know I drink too much and I lie most of the time but that’s hardly the worst of my issues.” He says turning back to face the other man, afraid of the next few words he intends to speak “It’s just something that comes with being me, a vast amount of nothingness that I live in. You don’t have to stay, and you can tell me never to come-”

“You’re coming back. That hasn’t changed, my feelings for you haven’t changed.” He states. It’s a confession that falls easily from his tongue, it doesn’t matter how often No One berates himself he is still a good and kind man in Thom’s eyes. Life had been cruel to him in ways that Thom had never imagined before, he knew Orlais was abhorrent but to this extent, it was unimaginable. “Come here.” Thom whispers, pulling No One from his thoughts and gently into his arms. He kisses the top of his head, running his fingers through the blonde strands, and rocking him slowly. “This doesn’t change anything, you and me, we’re still... We are.”

“You’re a good man, Thom, you know that?”

“ _We_ are.” Thom smiles behind his beard, squeezing No One’s hand once more. He watches the flames begin to dwindle, and though the cold begins to pinch at his clothes he ignores its clutches. No One explains what life with him would be like, how empty it would be, and it reminds Thom of himself. He doesn’t know how he would have handled a situation like this, falling for someone when you’ve lied about who you are for the entire time you’ve known them. Would he have had the courage to explain everything before things went too far? No, he thinks, he would have gotten mixed up in the lie and may never had told them. It’s a troubling thought, but it serves his opinions of No One well. If he wanted to back out of whatever they had brewing between them, he was being given the choice, and he suspects that No One will always and often give him a reminder of that fact.

No One keeps their hands linked as he rekindles the fire, knowing that Thom doesn’t hold tight enough that he cannot tear himself away, nor does he keep his grip loose that his fingers may slip from his own. He might be better suited to the colder weather, but Thom’s cheeks are a bright pink in the cold, and his hands are slowly becoming icier as the minutes go on.

“You’ll go to the Emprise, save some lives, help some villagers, be a hero, and when you get back, I’ll be waiting. On what little remains of my honour, I will be waiting.”


	30. Gilded

Leliana sat at her desk, fatigue creeping into her frame though she hid it with an almost natural ease, waiting on news from her scouts. With the information that The Iron Bull had given her earlier, she had put some false workmen outside of Thom’s chambers, but they had reported back that he wasn’t there, and hadn’t been for some time. His bed had only been warmed by the fire and there were no boot prints of any sort in his room. A strand of guilt had slipped into her then, festering until they could find him hiding atop the ramparts with the man she knew was an assassin. She was getting soft in her time with the Inquisition, and that was something a spymaster could not afford be.

“Ser Rainier doesn’t seem to be in any danger, Lady Leliana.” Scout Oscar said, his fist to his chest in a saluted bow. He was one of her best, a veritable expert in the game if he was as good as hiding his emotions as he was at reading them.

“None?” She tuts. There’s something she is missing, and frustration plagues her as it continues to elude her.

“They just look to be comforting each other.” He admits. “It’s… intimate.” Oscar adds in a softer voice, having felt awkward whilst he had been watching the two men sitting so closely. It was a private moment, and he didn’t feel as if he should be intruding.

“Keep him watched, have you heard anything they’re saying?” She orders.

“No, we won’t be able to get close to them without being seen, even from underneath they’re too quiet.” It’s not good news that slips from his throat, and it disappoints Leliana greatly. The assassin was smart, he had chosen a place in Skyhold that wasn’t easily accessible, and whilst it didn’t give him a full view of the fortress it did allow him to see everyone who was coming for him. The only disadvantage he had was that it was a corner, unless he threw himself from the ramparts and tried to climb down the uneven and arguably fatal surface of the Frostbacks. It’s something to think about; assassins always have a way out, but this man had given himself very little choice in the matter.

Leliana will order it to be torn down, and for the reparations for that section of the ramparts to be completed immediately. A cornered enemy can be a pleasant thing, but only if you’re able to choose when and where they are trapped. If the assassin desired a room he may get one like everyone else had done, she would even have his old room offered to him; the one he took under his chantry title.

“That’s all, thank you.” She waves him off and returns to her own thoughts. After Bull had told her that the man spoke Dalish it turned more cogs in her head than before, not many Orlesians would take the foreign tongue on, but she knows of one commanding man who has ties to them and closer ties to the Inquisition. One such man who had the ability to do more than he had ever could before, one who had an ever-shifting number of enemies and allies.

After the narrowly avoided disaster that was Halamshiral, things had begun to change in Orlais. Emperor Gaspard had so recently taken an advisor for all things elven and arcane, he had to in order to replace Morrigan. He had played the game well by employing one person to oversee both, though his folly had been to give them the position so quickly after obtaining the throne. There was no doubt that he had known the advisor beforehand, although he had kept them remarkably well hidden, he couldn’t keep them invisible. The only thing people knew about the advisor was that they; for they seemed without gender, wore a helmeted mask which covered everything but their ears. Even with their newly gifted title they were rarely seen at Gaspard’s side.

Rumours had mentioned the advisor was not just elven but Dalish, though she hadn’t been able to confirm it yet, it was a possibility she couldn’t exclude. She can’t imagine a Dalish who was willing to work with the Emperor who would actively try to improve life for the elves, which was another strong move for Gaspard, even if she despised it whole-heartedly. Some more choice rumours believed that Gaspard had found a new lover in his advisor, though it was hard to believe he would stray into that path after Celene’s folly in loving Briala. He also sought a woman to crown his Empress, and he already had one man warming his bed who didn’t seem put out at becoming a paramour by any means.

There was one such rumour which said that Emperor Gaspard had taken in not one, but two advisors for the position. She would take back her earlier minor admiration if so; employing two people for two jobs wasn’t anything special. It was a strange concept, to find two elves willing to work for him despite knowing the distaste he held for them. Leliana can imagine them to be power-hungry, of filled with a lust for gold. But was that not what they had said about Briala? As she warmed the Empress’ bed whilst her gilded fires burned through alienages.

It’s too far-fetched of an idea for her to act upon, and the reasons how and why weren’t good enough to risk ruining the coalition between Orlais and the Inquisition. If this alliance was to be ruined, it would be tainted by Gaspard’s hands only. Though, if the Emperor wanted Thom removed he would have had it done quickly, and the assassin wouldn’t have spent all that time seducing him beforehand. Leliana needed more time to think about it, and with the man leaving soon she may lose her opportunity.

She knew of one man in the close vicinity she could talk to, though admittedly she loathed the idea, about assassins and their lovers. Despite how much fiction was written on the idea, it was rare in the real world for them to engage in affairs like this. Andrastopher Cousland had gone against the norm and taken in the ex-crow Zevran as his partner, he had even toted him around at noble parties and the yearly Fereldan landsmeet upon his arm. But they were different people, and she didn’t yet trust the Warden Commander with any of their information.

As a bard herself she had seduced many targets, she knew the reasons about why that needed to happen sometimes to finish a job. But she never been one to fall in love with a target, it went against everything she believed in and everything she had worked for. But the years had softened her regardless. She wonders what she would have done in Zevran’s position all those years ago, no, she thinks, she couldn’t have put up with Cousland for that long without prematurely assassinating him. He gave her a foul taste in her mouth just thinking about him.

It's a single thought that hits Leliana which starts to fuel different albeit strong ideas in her head. Zevran Arainai was born of a Dalish mother, and Andrastopher was known to be a keen linguist in his youth; studying in some of the best universities across Orlais. It wasn’t too much of a leap to believe he could have learnt the elven tongue to impress his lover, the pair had never been discreet in their affections despite the Warden Commander’s monotone personality.

“But why?” Leliana murmurs to herself. She knows the man has little remorse, and a very clear opinion on personal revenge; the dwindling number of Howes was a testament to that. She wonders if the assassin had fallen for Thom, and Andrastopher had turned up to persuade him to finish the job. Though it doesn’t explain the Dalish connection; two human men speaking an elven tongue would raise more suspicion than if they spoke in clear Trade. There must be something else that evades her and lingers just out of sight, but by Andraste she will find it.

Her thoughts begin to run away from her, believing that if Morrigan was involved in some way then Andrastopher surely would be. There’s too many factors in her hunt to find out exactly who this assassin was, and the name Adeline hadn’t yet become a successful search.

After saying his farewells for the night, and seeing Thom to the grand hall, No One finds himself slinking around the fortress. He hadn’t had long to prepare for his journey, and despite how much he wanted to keep wearing the clothes Thom had given him, he knew he had to remake himself before he could leave. If things went wrong he needed to be untraceable, and perhaps an old tunic and breeches wasn’t much, but it was identifiable to the right eyes.

 He finds travelling gear which isn’t too heavy or memorable, and pilfers a few dozen sets of rations to store in a small satchel. No One wonders whether it’s a good idea to steal a sword or a weapon of the sort, it wasn’t hard to stumble across demons or Red Templars nowadays, though he still had Caldwell’s dagger if he ever needed it. Short swords and daggers aren’t his favourite class of weaponry, he had always been tempted by pikes or glaives, but anything resembling a staff became taboo under the chantry’s careful eye. What kind of chevalier doesn’t carry a gleaming sword at their waist? After all, it doesn’t matter if you die in battle so long as you looked good doing it.

Carrying any kind of weapon was an invitation for a fight, it told others that you had something to protect, even if that was only your life. People would try to take that just as easily as anything else. The smarter bandits and thieves chose their targets wisely; weighing their victims level of armament and weaponry against how large of a group they travelled in. No One wouldn’t be carrying a lot, he wasn’t much of a threat to anyone who stalked the roads with cruel intentions. He snorts to himself, believing his thoughts to be ironic. He was preparing the assassinate someone in a few days’ time; regardless of his intentions, the outcome was still ill-willed. Though as cruel as it was, he hadn’t preyed on the innocent in decades, and vowed never to again.

No One wanders for an hour, picking up the very few pebbles which stay persistently clear through the falling snow, trying the find the perfect stone. It’s not an easy search but there’s one he finds eventually, and he begins grinding it down into a small sphere to keep Thom safe in the travels he faces. He’s not foolish enough to believe the carved pearl will somehow deflect a sword or an arrow, but it is something in his gut which makes him believe that Thom will be protected by this gift.

He packs his things into swathes of cloth that he can easily tie around his body; it reminds him of the way he dressed before he came to Skyhold, before he met Thom. Rags with hidden pockets that made him look heavier than he was, it wasn’t good for defence, but No One had once stolen a hipflask which had kept a blade from sinking too far into his ribs. It still cut deep and made him bleed through his clothes until he could lamely stagger his way into a healer’s room.

Ever since he had started to live in Skyhold, he had been able to eat proper meals on Thom’s coin, gaining some weight and feeling much better for it. He can’t deny he feels better all-around after spending his months here. The rations that will sustain him on his journey won’t feel as good as a drink and a meal with Thom, but there wasn’t much choice to be had.

His lyrium set is carefully wrapped in cloth and placed at the bottom of his satchel, hidden beneath an extra set of clothes and his food for the journey. No One drinks the wine that Thom had brought him earlier as he waits for the hours to pass until sunrise. He knows he could set out now, but the moonlight still boils his skin, so travelling by day is all he has right now. With his estimation he should be able to reach Lake Calenhad when the moon is full, and taking out the Templar should be simple enough. The holy jailers could fight mages easily, but one on one with a beast usually shocked them for long enough that he could kill them before they raised their blade. Some were hardier than others, and from the suspected pay, this Templar wasn’t going to die with an effable whimper.

The Green-Eyed Boy should be waiting for him afterwards, a little way away from the lake, in a small abandoned hut that doesn’t serve as a possible shelter for anyone. Travelling by day also gives No One the opportunity to avoid the Warden Commander, who had taken to hunting in the night, and spending his mornings in his tavern room, presumably sleeping. How the gangly man managed to fit into that small room with three hounds was beyond No One’s imagination. But, he supposed, the Warden Commander was Fereldan.

He mulls over his decision for a few hours, wine in hand, he could still give the Green-Eyed Boy a different name, he isn’t yet fully bound by his decision. Whoever the Piss Merchant sends needn’t search through the Warden Commander’s life at all, yet he knows he has to, as unpleasant as his action’s outcome may be. Cousland must have some enemies, his demeanour is awful, and he has bound to have pissed some people off in his lifetime.

No One eventually makes his way around the ramparts, quietly stepping through the fortress until he stands at the gatehouse. With a heavy sigh of warm air from his lungs he begins his journey. The bridge to Skyhold is forebodingly long and empty in the early hours, there are no torches on either side to guide the way. People are expected to carry their own lanterns, the hollow and vast darkness a precaution against the dragon that Corypheus commands. Something begins to pull him back with every step that he takes. Not physically, but something in his chest which aches and something in his gut that burns. He swallows it down triumphantly until he reaches the furthest building from the fortress. The lingering footsteps of guards on duty echo above him, and he is weighted by longing guilt, unable to move any further forward. It is with a huff that he turns back to the fortress, battling the emptiness of the bridge and leaving his inner turmoil in his footprints.

He returns to his room to collect the small stone pearl, and to dispose of the written goodbye he had left for Thom, before he can see the man. The castle doesn’t share the eerie silence that accompanies its bridge, there’s a warmth to the walls, but there are few who find a need to walk the halls this early in the morning. No One takes the paths which lead him to the man he seeks, and carefully knocks on his chamber door, trying to rouse the man without waking everyone else in that wing up at the same time.  He can see some masonry work going on down the hallway, a few candle holders being replaced, and brickwork being inspected he thinks. He slips in quietly, carefully latching the door shut and stepping up to the bed.

“Thom,” No One whispers, “ _Thom_.” With the lack of answer from the sleeping man, still snoring and mumbling his way through his dreams, he takes a match from the box in his pocket and flicks it to life. Thom wakes at the sound, hand reaching for the dagger hidden beneath the pillows before No One grabs his wrist and shushes him with laughter. He is ever the soldier, though why he thinks he needs protection in Skyhold is a curiosity. No One lights the candle beside Thom’s bed and shakes the match until it extinguishes itself, blowing the lingering smoke away and flicking the match into a chamberpot.

“Andraste’s tits, man,” Thom breathes, scrubbing his face roughly and sitting up, “scared me to death.” No One lets out a short chuckle at Thom’s morning grogginess, taking a seat of the edge of the bed. “How early is it?”

“Half an hour until sunrise, I think.” He says taking in the sight that is Thom Rainier in the morning. His hair askew in tangles, his beard crooked and pressed to one side, and the lines etched into his skin look harsher as he squints and rubs his eyes. It’s a beautiful sight.

“Maker’s balls.” He winces, even Raas and her group wouldn’t be up yet. Though he remembers the days of rising before the sun to set out with them. They have later working times now because of the demon wolf, Garron reckons it’s probably the only good effect the beast has had on Skyhold.

“I thought last night was enough of a goodbye, but when I reached the end of that bridge I knew I wanted to come back to say it properly.” No One admits, he’s already dressed himself for the occasion, abandoning the druffalo wool blanket in favour of a thick fur lined coat that makes him look twice as wide as he is, underneath he had abandoned the clothes Thom had given him, leaving them folded neatly in his home in favour of thicker travelling clothes. He had planned to leave the carved stone outside of Thom’s room, or in the stables or his own home, somewhere that Thom could find it easily. But his will to leave had been weak against the tide of want that he had to see Thom once more.

“You’re leaving already?” Thom says, sobering from his sleep and taking a good look at No One. His hair is braided messily down the centre of his scalp, a few bits pulled out and hanging loose around his face, No One has even tied the length of his moustache under his chin and left it in a single braid. The man is still shoeless, and that doesn’t surprise Thom in the least.

“I’ve got a ten days’ walk ahead of me; he wants me there by the end of the month.” He shrugs. A silence settles around them, Thom slightly too tired with a too dry mouth to speak, and No One happy enough just to sit with the other man. They’re both avoiding saying goodbye because neither of them decidedly want to say it first. “I made you this.” No One says quietly, digging into his thick coat and pulling out a small stone, perfectly round and without a single blemish.

“Safety.” Thom smiles, taking the stone carefully and holding it in his cupped palm. It still leaves a trail of fine powder in its wake, as if it had only just been made. “You should keep it.”

“Take it to Sahrnia.” No One says in refusal, closing Thom’s hand around it with his own. He brings Thom’s fist to his mouth and kisses it lightly, before wrapping it with his own hands.

“You know, Solas told me about these.” Thom yawns, blinking away his fatigue.

“Oh?” He mentally picks through the people at Skyhold; trying to put a face to the name.

“He said they were guidance stones for one of the elven gods. To help them into the afterlife.” Thom holds it aloft next to the lantern, watching the shadow dance with the flames, and reaches for No One’s hand with his other. “But Lei told me he met Dalish twins who wore these as jewels.”

“I don’t know anything about that.” No One laughs. Perhaps the reasons why he made those Dalish stones and knew a Dalish tongue were intertwined, but he couldn’t think how it would be possible. He probably picked it up somewhere from an alienage when he was drunk or something, and it’s an excuse he’s happy to live with for now.

He explains to Thom as he’s dressing for the day, that he will have to send his letters to Caldwell, and he’ll reply as soon as he gets back from Lake Calenhad. They’ll be apart for two or three weeks until they can speak through their letters, and then it’s just for them both to wait until Thom can return from the Emprise du Lion. It goes without saying that nothing of No One’s secrets will be written in them, and Thom will remind himself that if there’s a chance that Caldwell will read them, Leliana or her scouts definitely will.

Thom intends to see No One off at the gates, if only to further extend their farewell. He’ll admit he’s not entirely sure about the man leaving on his own after all he has told him. He offers him boots multiple times, and even offers him an Inquisition horse if he can promise to return it safely. No One has to laugh at it all, and reminds Thom he’s left before in the same circumstances. The only difference now is that Thom knows about some of the danger he might face. He’s no less equipped than he was before, though Thom’s worry is a flattering kindness.

But Thom can’t help how he feels, knowing that No One will be traveling alone; and that these are perilous times for even a well-educated soldier. A passing chevalier, or an Orlesian captain, anyone could see him and figure out who he was. It’s the same kind of fear he lived with after the massacre of the Caliers, and it’s the same kind that No One has lived with for years longer than Thom ever could. They walk side by side through the fortress, talking in low voices as to not disturb the other guests, and keeping their hushed whispers private. Some of the workers outside of Thom’s room must have finished their job whilst he had been talking, though it’s strange how silent they had been.

Last night’s chill still remained in the air, not having been chased off by the sunrise, and both of their breaths fan around them in a protesting mist. No One feels far too warm under all his layers, he had gotten used to the thin tunic and the druffalo wool blanket which never did a perfect job of keeping the cold out. The heat brings a redness to his cheeks that he would prefer not to have, but it is stubborn and cannot be willed away.

“I hope you think about what I said before.” No One says, stopping before the gate house. “I know we haven’t known each other that long, Thom, just a little under a year, but I have to admit this is the longest time I’ve spent in one place in a while.” It was rare for him to stay in any place longer than he had too; each job the Piss Merchant gave him forced him to travel for most of his days. But as Skyhold became a new landmark and people came to visit, he no longer had to travel to meet his targets because they were coming to him unknowingly.

“That’s not going to end.” Thom offers, hope surfacing in his voice.

“You’re not thinking about what I said.”

“I’ve thought about it already.” Thom says honestly. He had thought about it on the way back to his chambers last night, he knew what living a lie was like. Not to the same extent that No One had, but he had a taste of it. The fear, the paranoia, the complete mistrust of anyone who you might come across. He tried not to think about what No One had confessed to him about his childhood, it made his guts boil and his fingers twitch. There is a cruelty in the world that seems amplified in the nobility of Orlais, and its victims could hardly protest.

When Thom had first met Blackwall he too had given him a false name, not a very good one from the man’s expression, but he didn’t bring it up until Thom admitted he had lied to him. Though Thom wasn’t a nobleman, with a history of borderline scandals and noble soldiers, Thom was just a man out of thousands of other Thoms. He wonders briefly if No One has an overtly fancy name, something uncommon even amongst nobility, and that is why he has kept it hidden. Then he wonders if they have the same name, if No One is called Thom himself. It’s a strange thought, but he can’t excuse it, and it makes half the images in his mind turn bizarre; No One doesn’t look like a Thom. Surely not, he thinks, chewing his tongue. Moaning _No One_ was a better choice than moaning his own name.

“Thom, I mean it.” No One huffs.

“So do I.” He states. “I’m not giving up on you, No One, you’re a good man.” He grips No One’s arms thorough the thick padding of his coat, trying to force his point home. Thom wants No One to return to Skyhold, and Maker help him if he doesn’t. Sera had walked out of here never to come back, he’s damned if he lets another friend do so.

“Ser Rainier?” A voice calls out, familiar enough to make Thom turn away from the other man, breaking the potent stare he had locked No One in.

“Lei?” Thom frowns. He hadn’t expected to see the young man for a long time, before he seemed reluctant to leave the Fallow Mire solely on his father’s words. To see him now was unusual to say the least. He looked slightly different from the last time Thom met him, less wet and not covered in as much mud, but there was something else that he couldn’t quite figure out.

“Ma’abelas, I don’t mean to intrude, but I’m desperate for a friendly face.” He says, offering them both an unpractised half-bow. Interrupting wasn’t what he had intended to do, but it was an anxiety that bubbled from his lungs that he couldn’t stop. Being here at Skyhold meant he would be properly meeting his father, and he had heard that many Trevelyans took up residence in Skyhold. Lei knows there’s a lot of extended family who he’ll have to face, not knowing exactly what they think of him, though he had a rather strong idea from what the soldiers back in southern Ferelden had said.

“I’ll take my leave then, Thom, Lei.” No One nods to both men respectfully before he turns to go. His mind falters at the Dalish words slipping from the man’s mouth, to look at him you would think he was entirely human, but the accent belies his heritage. It makes No One respect the man more. There was no secret that elven-blooded people in Orlais generally dismissed that part of their ancestry, some even going as far to take another’s name to become a member of the chevaliers. He remembers a bastard born boy who tried to enter the order, but was turned away because there was no definitive proof that his father wasn’t an elf.

“Safe journey.” Thom says, a bit hurt that he hadn’t the chance to kiss the other man goodbye. The fear that No One might not come back roots in his belly, and it’s something he won’t shed until he sees the man again; safe once more.

“Dareth shiral.” Lei calls after him as a courtesy. It makes No One stumble again as he throws his hand up as a farewell. He has heard the words before, he knows he has, but he can’t pinpoint when or where no matter how hard he digs. It’s a common goodbye amongst the Dalish, so he could have simply heard it in passing, but it doesn’t feel that way even if he had done. No, he thinks, someone said it to him, with hands in his hair and blinding smoke in his eyes. But there’s something wrong with the fists that hold him. He slips his own fingers through the braid he had put in, tangling it as he walked, mimicking the fading motion. Upon his lips he whispers _dareth shiral_ as a mantra, desperately chasing the burning taste of putrid ash. Fingers, he realises, the one who holds him is missing some of their fingers.

“I didn’t think you’d be here so soon.” Thom admits with a shrug, keeping his eyes on the blonde until he slips from view. “After what happened in the Fallow Mire.” He recognises the difference when he turns back to Goddard’s son, his untameable hair has been cut short, leaving on the barest hints of the curling mass he had before. The young man looks better for it, the new appearances makes him look mature but not any older. Thom wonders briefly if it’s an attempt to look more regal, in a hope that he may impress his father and his new family.

“Is he still here? The Herald’s son, I’ve forgotten his name.” Lei admits shyly, scratching at the curve of his jaw and refusing eye contact. “I’ve never been good with names.” He was good at remembering faces though, and he had only remembered _Rainier_ because it’s had been raining when they had spoken. His first name was beyond his memory, and he’s too embarrassed to admit that to the man.

“Fulton? No, he left a few weeks ago.” Thom keeps the fight from slipping through his lips; Lei doesn’t need to know about something he hadn’t any control over, and there’s no use in making the man feel guilty over it.

“Because of me?” He says, rolling his shoulders before he speaks, “I shouldn’t have come here. But, I was requested by the Spymaster, she said she had something only I could do.” It had been a short letter, delivered on wings, and passed to him with the utmost importance. Lei had stared at it for hours until he had the courage to unroll the tied letter. He had assumed it was from his newfound father, and that brought anxiety to him in ways nothing else had ever done before. “I work for the Inquisition, I can’t deny them when I’m called upon, yes?”

“Any idea what it is?” Thom says. The spoken words of an undeniable Inquisition makes his head throb.

“No, she was vague. Could you show me to her rooms?” Lei asks, eager to have it done with so he can be on his way. He had caused enough upset in his own clan and family that he didn’t want to repeat it elsewhere.

“I think it’s better if you get settled with Lady Montilyet, if you’re staying?” Thom asks. He pats Lei’s back to make him follow, he knows Josephine manages to be awake and ready at the earliest hours of the morning, even if he can’t figure out how. Thom glances back a few times, as if No One would appear once more, but he doesn’t. The blonde is truly beyond the horizon, and Thom has to settle his gut knowing they’ll be apart for a month or two. How ever long it takes to resolve the issues in Sahrnia.

“I think so, the letter said something about an opening as a guardsman here.” Lei shrugs. “It’s mine if I want it, but, the letter didn’t come from the Herald.” Thom nods with an understanding, the young man is nervous beyond words, and while Thom can’t empathise with the idea of meeting a half-family, he can empathise with his situation of meeting Goddard. He once thought the Herald had the look of a stern father, but when he commands a holy albeit rather large army, it adds a different hue to him. His wife was commandeering too, and both Twyla and Fulton had a spark for authority in them. It’s no wonder Lei is so worried; the boy can barely meet Thom’s eyes as they speak. Perhaps the Herald’s grandchildren will be more accommodating of their new uncle.

Thom tells Lei that Leliana will be at the top of the library, and if she isn’t then her scouts definitely will be; they’ll know her whereabouts more than he does. He visits Josephine to set up a room for the man, he has a feeling that Lei would rather sleep with the rest of the soldiers like Thom had originally. But they had manoeuvred him out of that kind of thinking and set him up with a room fit for a wealthy Lord. No doubt the Inquisitor’s son will have something royal, even if he was a bastard.

The meeting Lei had taken with Leliana hadn’t lasted that long. She had shown him a sketch of the man he had met briefly at the gates, and asked him if it was Luin Saile. He had been confused at first, and shrugged out a clear dismissal, he hadn’t seen the man at the gates before today. Yet she persisted with the names; _Easton Nock, Wystan, Brother Eustace, Viola,_ and Lei felt disappointed that he couldn’t help her at all. Leliana reassured him that he had helped in a way, it fortified the idea that the assassin wasn’t Luin at all. Asking about Viola had been a stretch in her mind, but she hadn’t forgotten about that second more violent assassin who had left her calling card in Skyhold.

She asked him dozens of questions about his time with the real Luin Saile; the scams they pulled to con people out of their money. Lei had only been young at the time, and the partnership had only lasted a few years before he was jailed for it. It could have been worse, he reminds himself. Luin had walked away from it with a few well-placed bribes, and Lei had taken a reduced sentence as he was so young. He fears that Leliana knows he is a mage, and that she had just invited him here to put him in Skyhold’s Circle tower. It’s a thought she quells in him before it takes root in his mind. She had asked him here to solidify her knowledge on the assassin, and removing identities was a way, albeit a slow one, to find out who he is. Lei would not be punished for his magic, not here.

No One spends the day walking, whistling to himself every so often, and throwing up the oversized hood over his head when people pass him. He has seen a few carriages so far, nothing that stood out as a possibility for being his father’s, so he remains vigilant in his path. It’s a depressing thought that his father might not recognise him, even more that No One might not recognise him either. But it’s not something he wishes to dwell on. As much as he won’t admit it, he’d love to see his family again, and to have them this close and have them remain untouchable is harder than he had expected. Maxime would travel with chevaliers, and those chevaliers would capture him in an instant. He’s not the fighter he used to be, and even back then he wasn’t the best no matter how hard he tried. He knew the chevaliers who travelled with his father wouldn’t be his brothers, it was too much of a risk after No One had been announced dead, albeit as wrong as it was.

He finds a comfortable enough of a place to rest in the late afternoon, sitting with his back against a short boulder and chewing through his stolen rations. Loneliness starts to needle into his gut, it had only been a few short hours, but he missed Thom already. No One abandons the remainder of his food atop the stone and sets himself on the journey once more. It’s a long walk to Lake Calenhad, and a solitary one at that.

In Skyhold, Lei provides Thom with the distraction he wants, taking the time to show the younger man around. It’s an obscenely large fortress with winding corridors and stairs upon stairs. Navigating forest land as a child had at least given him a vague sense of direction, though it wasn’t so easy to apply it to stone work and hidden pathways. It was harder to focus when people seemed to stare at him as if he were foreign, and the thought that the milling people knew about who his father was settled heavy in his mind.

He wants to ask Thom about the man at the gates, a curiosity in him to find out exactly why he had been called here for that one thing. His interest in knowing is squashed when he sees the Herald from across the courtyard. Clean-shaven, bathed, and no longer dressed in dirt splattered armour, he looks every bit the holy noble that he was, and Lei feels so out of his depth he’s almost drowning. A stone-faced woman stands beside his father, he assumes it’s his wife, and she looks just as perfect as he does in dyed furs and jewels. They stand at an odd impasse, neither of them taking the first step towards one another, even as Skyhold continues around them. Words are passed between Goddard and his wife, silently in whispers, and Thom can feel the anxiety radiating from the man beside him. It’s the feeling that swells within soldiers on the eve of a battle, when the men behind you are the only reason you don’t step back in fear.

It’s Yetta who moves first, removing her hand from the crook in Goddard’s elbow, and turning to climb the steps and re-enter the Grand Hall. The Herald stays for a moment, and then follows in his wife’s footsteps, leaving his bastard-born son unspoken to in the courtyard. It makes Thom’s gut burn. Goddard had been so excited to meet his son at first, yet in the face of the crowds in Skyhold he had cowered away from him. It’s rare to forget that Goddard is a nobleman, and so often it is that he reminds Thom that he is one, standing high and mighty above all else. What a prick.

“I shouldn’t have come here.” Lei whispers, swallowing around the swelling in his throat. He hadn’t expected it to hurt so badly. In truth he had expectations of being embraced by his true father, but what the soldiers had told him was apparently true. Noblemen were noblemen, and their bastards were not.

“Fancy a drink?” Thom offers, for lack of anything comforting to say that won’t be fuelled by his aggression, “I haven’t shown you the tavern yet.”

“Thank you.” Lei murmurs, glad to have a friend beside him. It’s hard not to let the silent rebuff hurt him as it does, but clan Mi’Durgen had all but abandoned him and he had hoped that his father’s family might be different. But in this world, where he has hidden behind his human stature more than once, he cannot see why a nobleman would accept him. Especially not one who proudly claims the title of _Herald of Andraste_. Clan Mi’Durgen may not have been kind, but at least his mother had loved him.

Thom buys the first few rounds of drink, refusing Lei’s coin on account of trying to make him feel better. A few ales aren’t anything in the face of having your newfound father turn his back on you, but it’s a start, and getting drunk is one way to deal with certain things. Lei isn’t the kind of man who has spent a lot of time in taverns, so he just drinks whatever Thom puts in front of him and keeps his complaints to himself. He’s hardly in the right frame of mind for caring about what graces his tongue.

They don’t really know that much about each other, so the conversation is often wilted, and it’s hard for him to not talk about the Inquisition whilst they’re sat in Skyhold. Thom can see the man is destroyed by what Goddard had done, though he knows Lei is doing his best to hide how broken he feels. It’s hard not to notice the eyes that stare across at them from across the room too. He had gotten used to picking out those who stared at him in taverns when he was running from himself, spending too much time figuring out exactly what those stares were saying. From what he could tell, they weren’t looking at him but rather at Lei, and it’s simple enough to figure out why.

Lei is young and handsome, with strong features and golden skin. He might look miserable slumped over the table running his fingers around the rim of his half-empty mug, but it doesn’t seem to deter anyone from glancing over more often than not. Though it is the pallid, ink-tainted skin of the Warden Commander that captures his attention. Dressed in white leathers and surrounded by his mabaris that boasted white war paint across their faces and backs, he looks little like a Warden, but he has been in Skyhold long enough for people to recognise his abstract features and his curling ears.

“Ser Rainier, where is our friend?” He asks, taking a care not to mention any names in the bustling tavern. Andrastopher had done his work before in finding out exactly who used his name, and had guessed the rest. He knew Thom called him _No One_ , but the Inquisitor’s son was an unknown for the moment.

“He left this morning.” Thom says, setting down his ale.

“Where has he gone?”

“He didn’t say.” Thom lies. No One had been clear in telling him that he should keep his whereabouts unknown. He hadn’t given him a reason, but Thom had trusted that he had his reasons, and he knew not that No One responded better when he wasn’t pressured into corners. Thom wasn’t about to betray his trust, not after the progress they had made together. If No One had a reason for keeping himself hidden, then Thom would accept it readily.

“Will he return?” Andrastopher asks, his voice as steady as before. Thom Rainier is not a very good liar, he might have convinced himself and Thedas he was Blackwall, hiding behind the veil that was the uniform and anonymity of a Grey Warden. But he had his tells, and Andrastopher was reading them clearly.

“I hope so.” Thom admits.

“Are you taking new recruits?” Lei half slurs interrupting the low conversation, picking himself up from the table to glance upwards at the other man.

“Sober ones, yes.” Andrastopher nods, standing back from the table and allowing Lei to collapse further onto it. “Find me tomorrow afternoon if you’re still of a mind.” He doesn’t offer any pleasantries before he whistles his mabaris from the tavern and sets out for the night. If he took one of the Inquisition’s coursers he could ride the mountain path until it splits into two roads, each trail respectively for Orlais and Ferelden. There isn’t much chance that the chevalier would take the main path to Orlais, and if he wandered too far from the marked trail; Holden had a brilliant nose and a strong capability for tracking.

No One finds himself straying from the caravans as they ride passed him, hiding under his thick hood hoping that it I enough to stave off prying eyes. He’s also reminded of the last caravan journey he had taken down the mountain, with that bastard slaver Oswin. He should have gutted him as soon as he figured out who he was; though No One takes comfort in knowing Viola would have ruined him better than he ever could. That man held a strange pleasure for his so-called symphonies. Ever the performer that he was, over compensating for not actually being of Orlesian blood no matter how he dressed and how he acted.

He stops when he sees a caravan to one side of the path, a wheel being fixed to one side with an awkward grace. The two clearly aren’t made for repairing. No One bites his tongue when he is seen, and they wave him over with relief on their faces. He thinks briefly of bandits, of falsely broken carriages meant to lure in those of a helpful nature. The dagger remains at his side, and if he has some luck it will stay there.

“If you could help us, Ser, it would be gladly reciprocated.” One shouts when No One doesn’t move. There aren’t many other people around as the sun begins to set, most travellers will have set up a camp for the night already. No One steps in carefully, with a false bravado, perhaps they’re mere travellers.

“We’ve been having problems with the axletree all day.” He huffs, squatting down in order to lift the fallen corner. It’s a small glint in the corner of No One’s eye when he starts reattaching the wheel, a glimmer of polished and gilded metal underneath the common robes. His heart rises into his throat and his lungs collapse inside his chest. _Chevaliers_. He swallows heavily through the throbbing in his mouth, he can taste blood and soil, the heavy swamp air suffocating him. Beyond the door, a simple door of peeling paint, sits his father and guests. He grounds himself in that thought. Maxime wasn’t there when the wolf came, Maxime hadn’t hunted him to the ends of Thedas over a piss poor recompense and an ill-timed mistake. His father had nary done anything wrong.

“Thank you, Ser.” The chevalier says when the wheel is affixed in place once more. “Here, we have some coin if you’d-”

“Nay, Lad.” No One grunts in the thickest Starkhaven accent he can manage, before marching away quickly. He hears a whisper of _what a_ _peculiar man_ as he flees, almost sprinting through the snow to leave them far, far behind. No One doesn’t know when he comes to a stop. The sun has abandoned it’s time in the sky, and the moons illuminate the white valleys of the Frostbacks. He collapses to his knees and sobs into his hands, wailing in his agony. What a coward he was.

Dawn breaks before he moves to stand again. The snow had kept him company and had fallen steady enough to blanket him in a false warmth. Several small mounds lay around him, once perfectly formed spheres of snow now malformed under the weight of the weather. No One’s safety comes in one shape, and he hasn’t the bravery to laugh in its face. He has a journey to make, and he is wasting time.


	31. The Ever-Travelling Man

Thom is miserable after an almost unbearable sleepless night; worrying about how No One fairs on his journey to Lake Calenhad. His mind had run with the many dangers he would face, no different than anyone else, but Thom could admit he cared more for No One than the pilgrims who travelled to Skyhold. He wouldn’t wish the danger on anyone, but he still feels a stab of guilt for the selfish thought regardless.

Last night he had drank until the early hours of the morning with Lei, staying in the tavern until Cabot eventually rang the last bell, and helped the young man stumble to his new bedchambers. Which, as Thom had predicted earlier, was outfitted for a king. A four-poster bed with dyed draping curtains, a working desk with plush chairs, three settees no doubt too expensive for sitting on, a higher view of the Frostbacks than most, a constantly tended fire, and a separate bathing chamber and dressing room. Thom thought his room was extravagant for himself, but this was far too much comfort for any man. A marvel how it had all come together at such short notice. It was only that Lei, with his simple clothing, and with his small bag of belongings, looked drastically out of place. He wanted to help the boy, or at least carve a few verbal lines into Goddard for his actions. Bloody Inquisitor, he wants to unite Thedas against Corypheus and he can’t bond his own family together. Thom won’t make the same mistake of waiting that he had done with Sera, he intends to speak to the Herald about his actions; scold him if need be. Though it might be for naught if Lei decides to take up with the Grey Wardens. Their only family is often the brothers and sisters who endure the blight beside them.

Lei had barely held back his tears, and Thom had lingered around the outside of his chambers just in case something happened. He didn’t know what he had been waiting for, but it seemed like the young man just fell straight asleep. After the turbulent day he’d had, Thom couldn’t have blamed him. He hopes that Lei is still there in the morning. Dorian might be a better person for him to speak to, he knew all about rekindling things with disconnected fathers. Though from Thom’s understanding that situation had been entirely different, Dorian still refuses to speak about it, and it’s clear enough that there’s an insurmountable issue between them. Still, it’s more experience than Thom had ever had.

Thom dresses for the day, pulling himself into clean clothes, and slipping into his cleanest boots. He thinks about No One walking all the way to Lake Calenhad barefoot, the man hadn’t ever seemed bothered by the snows and frost before, but Thom had seen the damage cold could do to bare limbs. The fortress slowly awakens with the guests coming from their rooms to break their own fasts, Thom forgoes a meal in favour of finding the Herald before something occupies the man’s time. He manages to corner Goddard on the incomplete stairwell that leads to his chambers. He looks no worse for wear than Thom does, but his dark eyes are tired and there’s a reluctance to speak hidden behind his voice.

“I’ll presume you wish you talk about Lei, and I’d remind you that I have things to attend to that cannot wait.” Goddard says with exhaustion. Last night he and his wife had suffered the same silence they had when Goddard had admitted to the affair some twenty years ago, and it had left him as sleepless as before. Yetta seemed to have become mute over seeing her husband’s son, and she went about her actions with a slow grace, barely holding herself together. It was reminiscent of a memory that he could find no comfort in.

“He’s your son, and he’s heartbroken.” Thom grunts, folding his arms to keep his hands from forming fists. He hadn’t spoken to Lei yet this morning, he probably should have before wading in, but if he didn’t catch the Inquisitor before he went about his business there’d be little chance of speaking to him today. The longer he left it, the less chance he had of getting his thoughts across properly. There was little stopping the Inquisitor from sending his son away once more, and Thom wouldn’t risk that happening to someone else.

“If there’s no more-”

“How can you be so callous? So bloody detached?” He hisses, gripping at the fabric of his own coat to stop him from grabbing the Inquisitor.

“What would you have me do, hm?” Goddard asks impatiently. “You know how the game works, Thom, it is not so present here in Ferelden than it is in Orlais. But Maker, this isn’t just about him.” It affects his entire family, how his bannorn see him, and with every pair of eyes in Thedas on him he has to step carefully. He cannot afford to be selfish, and no matter how much he wishes to accept Lei this is not solely his decision. For what little he knows about Clan Mi’Durgen, he’s sure they won’t be thrilled if Goddard wants to claim him as his own. They were the more violent and banditry type of Dalish.

“I thought you were better than that, _bigger_ than that.”

“I suppose you know all about this sort of thing?” He scoffs indignantly, disliking being negatively addressed on his own life choices by someone who’s crimes he had forgiven freely.

“Admitting to your mistakes, yes, admitting you were wrong and made shit decisions, _yes_.” Thom grunts, maybe he hasn’t accepted a bastard and maybe he’s never been as important as the Herald of Andraste. But damn him, he has morals and he’s made bad choices, and he’s trying to fix them. “The Herald of Andraste should set examples, how many sons and daughters are you damning by refusing your own?”

“Do not lecture me on the magnitude of my decisions.” Goddard hisses, his hand balling into a fist and slamming into the stone work beside them. He had hit Thom before, and he refrains from doing so again; he has little to gain from abusing his companions, and right now there is almost nothing but his fracturing pride to hold him back.

“Someone has to.” He says, puffing out his chest.

“You forget yourself, _Blackwall_.” The stolen name comes as a clear threat from the Herald. The past had not been forgotten, nor had it been completely forgiven.

“Then you have my most heartfelt apologies, My Lord Herald.” He spits with a barely concealed venom at Goddard’s advancing step. Thom turns slowly and leaves with more aggression than he had started with, backing down from a fight he couldn’t hope to win. He hasn’t fought Lei’s side well, and in truth didn’t believe he could make things worse but now he’s not so confident in that idea. He stops just before he exits the stairwell, turning back to Trevelyan. “I know a man with a bastard, and he’d be willing to sacrifice everything just to see them.” The half-true words slip from his lungs before he can process them, and he knows he can’t return them to his lips.

“I will not warn you again.”

“He’s a better man than you, Inquisitor.” He spies Yetta Trevelyan from the top of the stairs, looking as worn down and as made up as her husband. “My Lady.” He offers with a nod and cannot refrain from slamming the door as he leaves. Thom doesn’t have any right to be mad at her, and although she had refused Lei all the same; he wasn’t _her_ child to claim.

He regrets the words he had spoken about No One, Thom knows he shouldn’t have said anything, but he couldn’t refrain from insulting the Inquisitor’s honour. Goddard was behaving so cruelly, and as the Herald of Andraste denied his bastards how many more would suffer this fate. If the holiest of icons couldn’t embrace their child, then what hope did Thedas have in that regard. Thom thinks of No One and his daughter, it’s too similar of a situation not to compare them. No One was acting nobly in trying to protect her; being a child of a chevalier deserter was as much of a stain as being a bastard in Orlais. But he resisted the need to see her because he loved her. Yet Goddard has the chance to get to know his son, and he regards it as if it is nothing.

The inaction infuriates Thom. Especially because of how Goddard had acted back in the Fallow Mire; he was over enthusiastic and almost desperate to know his newfound son. But something had changed in the weeks that had passed, and Thom doesn’t know who to blame but him. Whatever the Inquisitor may choose to do about his bastard, he has made a victim out of his son, and may have done untold damage to the boy already.

Lei is standing in the upper courtyard, leaning against the stone wall and looking down into the lower area when Thom goes to seek him out. It surprises him to see the man awake so early after last night’s drinking, and he can’t help but feel a tad bit guiltier at how he had just defended him. He should have asked the young man first. But perhaps acting too soon was better than never acting at all. He doesn’t say anything when Thom takes to standing beside him, but he points down at the Warden Commander at the gates, dressed in the same white leathers he had been last night.

“I’m going to be a Grey Warden.” He croaks, his voice dry and unsteady. “I’ve fought darkspawn before, and if I can’t find a family there, well, I’ll just turn into a dragon and fly away.”

“It’s a noble cause.” Thom shrugs, trying not to persuade him in whatever decision he makes. He has to hold back his laughter at the comment; Lei must still be drunk, and he can’t imagine a several yearlong sober Andrastopher finding it endearing in any capacity.

“What’s he like then?” Lei says, pushing himself up to stand straighter, he rolls his shoulders and stretches out his neck, grunting as his vision swims with darkness. He nods down at the lower courtyard, where Cousland stands tending to the two pack-horses he had brought with him when he had first arrived in the mountain fortress.

“The Warden Commander? He’s…” Thom finds himself lost for words to describe him, _gangly_ comes to mind. “True,” He offers, “admirable, strong, smart. He sees the good and bad in people, and I don’t think he judges them for it.” He remembers No One’s mistrust of the man, and the trust he had placed in Thom in almost the same breath. He couldn’t diminish No One’s feelings for the Warden Commander, but he had been alone and paranoid for eighteen years, finding someone untrustworthy was an easy thing to do. Though finding someone you could trust, was an untold compliment to whoever it may be. The thought makes Thom’s chest swell a little, and brings a warmth to him to keep away the chill.

“Sounds like the ideal Grey Warden.” Lei laughs softly. He pushes the heels of his hands into his eyes to try and stem his hangover which bleeds into his vision.

“Suppose he has to be.” Thom nods, thinking about the ideals he held for the Wardens, compared to the reality that Blackwall had offered him and the examples that Andrastopher had given him. He realises he knows less about the Grey Wardens than he had originally thought. How he had ever managed to scrape together the lie of Blackwall is still beyond him. He could only thank the Maker that Leliana hadn’t truly looked into him as he hid behind the veil of the Warden’s insignia.

“Have you ever seen him fight?” Lei asks. “He has to be good if he killed an archdemon.” Thom thinks back at the time that Andrastopher has spent in Skyhold, and he can’t remember the man ever picking up a weapon. A few prisoners had apparently been pitted against him in the jail beneath Skyhold, but Thom hadn’t been there to see it. Some had become recruits, but they remained in their cells until Andrastopher was ready to leave Skyhold and take them to the nearest Warden encampment for their Joining.

“No.” Thom says, wondering exactly why he hasn’t seen the Warden Commander fight. Surely the Inquisition soldiers would benefit from having some form of training from him, they were fighting a dragon similar to an archdemon; and who could give better advice than the man who stopped a blight. He can imagine it would be inspiring to the soldiers, and would probably motivate a few to join the ranks of the Grey Wardens. But after Adamant, and his own lies no less, there was little trust to spare for the order, and even less kindness. Andrastopher’s lack of interest in raising a sword in Skyhold might be more about self-preservation than anything else.

“He’s a bowman,” Lei points out, “and I’ve never had a hand for archery. You think he’s had all kinds of training?”

“He’s a nobleman. They get the choice of everything don’t they?” Thom feels his voice souring at the thought. _Yes_ , noblemen get a choice in what they want and what they don’t, whether it’s sons or swords. He spies Goddard leaving the grand hall, and he turns his head away, he doesn’t want to see him and a part of him fears the repercussions of this morning’s argument. His words had been barbed and vile, and regardless of how he viewed the other man, there was a hierarchy to them that Thom had completely ignored, as he had done with others in his youth so many times before.

A carriage rolls into the lower courtyard, and Goddard waits as the passenger steps out, accepting the bows of the two carriage drivers gracefully. Thom is too far away to hear what they’re saying, but it’s an Orlesian man who steps out, the outfit he’s wearing is loud enough for anyone to hear wherever they were. Thom starts to get an idea of why No One might have left so suddenly. This Orlesian must have been something special to be personally greeted by the Inquisitor, though the lack of an entourage was something queer.

Lei has already left his side to follow after Andrastopher as he makes his way into the tavern, and it leaves Thom alone to scowl at the pair of rich men. He knows he should make himself scarce, but he’s not in the right kind of mood to follow orders for the benefits of those who get every advantage from birth.

The new Orlesian dressed in deep reds and golden threads, a weighty expensive cape lined with fur dragged a trail behind him, it looked too luxurious to be gathering in the snow, but the man didn’t seem to care. As they neared closer, Thom could make out other features in his clothing, the embroidery, the jewels, the shoes that weren’t meant for snow travel. More importantly he recognised the golden feather resting in the broach he wore across his breast. No One must have known about the Inquisitor’s guest, and he must have known that he was a chevalier of some high status. Thom starts to believe that No One was in less danger out in the wilds with demons and Red Templars, he could at least fight against those without consequences of a guaranteed fatal nature.

It’s hard to tell where someone looks when they’ve got the latest Orlesian fashion across their nose, but Thom catches the fading eyes of the chevalier and there’s little recognition in them. Shame brews in his gut when he realises what he might be looking for. He had been so caught up in Lei’s business and worrying over No One that his own crimes had faded; did he want this man to know him and know of his massacre years ago? Thom scrubs his face roughly and turns away. Hiding from sight might have done himself more good than it had done for the Inquisitor, still. For now, he remains pardoned from his crimes. That might change in time, but that’s out of Thom’s hands. Apologies don’t settle well on his tongue right now, and his reasons were just, even if his actions were not.

No One had walked a steady pace through the night. He was far enough away from Skyhold to be out of Cousland’s hunting grounds, which gave him a freedom in his movement even if he had to cover the entirety of his skin from the lingering moonlight. His thoughts were still clouded from his encounter with the chevaliers, but the numb ache in his toes seemed to counteract it, and he wasn’t going to allow that to slip away from him at any time soon.

It was with every step that a weight was lifted, and another was placed on him; an everlasting cycle of bulk across his back and in his chest. Walking was something he was used to, he was the ever-travelling man. But he hadn’t been walking away from something he cared about in a long time, and leaving Thom behind was something that unsettled him.  Everything he had cared about had been walking with him, though now he faced his journeys alone, knowing he was tethered to Skyhold by a single strand of something he couldn’t quite name.

The thought of Thom telling him to leave worried him further. But this had to be done, he convinces himself, this is the best course of action that he can take. No One knows that Thom could tell him to go at any point in time, leaving for Lake Calenhad doesn’t really have an impact on it. But it gave them both time to think about their decisions. Falling for Thom was selfish, but No One _was_ selfish, he just hoped that the other man was as selfless to balance everything out.

He doesn’t stop to eat, rather he forgoes the meal completely in favour of the throbbing in his feet. The crowds on the roads tend to thin out the further he gets from Skyhold, it’s rarer to see anyone that isn’t a trader’s caravan on the paths; there’s easier ways to cross the Frostbacks than travelling through the routes to the mountain fortress. That isn’t to say there aren’t many people there, No One has to throw his hood over his head half a dozen times before he eventually stops to eat. He regrets not bringing any alcohol with him, but there’s a small inn a way down that he can stop in and sip through the dregs. For he hadn’t bought any coin with him either.

Maxime would have arrived at Skyhold by now if the axletree had held its own, and he would be dining on fine meats specifically procured for him. He wonders if anyone will make the connection. Thom could, as could Cousland, the thought only fares to solidify his reasons for doing this. The Templar would have to be killed at some point regardless, but the price he’s paying for information on Cousland, for something to hold over the Warden Commander’s head, would all be worth it. No One knows how the game works, and even though he hasn’t played it in years, he’s still valid enough to pick it back up.

In the grand hall the lingering crowd finds their gaze falling onto the Duke and the Herald. Before it had never bothered Trevelyan, he had commanded armies and squadrons, hosted balls and celebrations, and he had condemned men in this very hall from his own personal throne. Yet his bastard-born son had arrived yesterday, and he couldn’t help but feel that everyone here knew of the event. The dozens of eyes weren’t merely watching, but they judged him, picking apart his life as the stain of his affair years ago finally bled through and came to light.

Goddard knew it was wrong to think of it like that, but as walls constructed around him he couldn’t think of it any other way. To think of Lei as his son rather than a product of his affair was too much of a risk to take. If Yetta refused to acknowledge him, no matter how long she might take to come to the decision, Goddard would support her.

He leads Duke Baroulx to his and Yetta’s personal chambers, he could not think of anywhere that offered more privacy. The two guards he has with him open the doors and subtly help to lead Maxime up the stairs. Even with nobody watching the Duke remains as graceful as he can be with his withered eyesight. Goddard can still feel the eyes of every person in the grand hall bearing down upon him.

“Your Worship, it is an honour to meet you, again.” Maxime bows, greeting him formally once more now they were out of the public eye, “I have heard such tales about you, and I will forever regret not dancing with you at Gaspard’s long-awaited ascension to the throne.” He has a smile behind his golden half-mask, and there’s a glow to his cheeks that makes him seem younger than his cropped silver hair belies. Goddard can’t tell if Maxime looks anything like Florent, and he cannot decide whether that’s a good thing or not.

“You flatter me, Your Grace.” Goddard says, giving a nod in return. He extends a hand to offer the Duke a seat, helping him down, and taking his own before waving the maids from the room. This is a conversation he would prefer in private. Originally, they had intended to sneak Duke Baroulx into Skyhold without any fuss, but rumours had circulated that essentially made the discretion useless. Goddard would have Inquisition soldiers accompany him home whenever the Duke left Skyhold.

“Though it is not on the best terms that we meet. Your spymaster explained in the letter that you were searching for Florent, and I would do anything to find him.” He admits, taking the cup of tea that Goddard offered. He would prefer something hardier, but he would take anything the Herald of Andraste gifted him in his own home out of sheer politeness. His eyes weren’t good enough to see whether or not the Inquisitor kept whiskeys and brandies in his room either. “But I must admit, it is strange to have the Inquisition searching for him after all this time.”

“It is more of a personal matter.” He says pouring his own drink and keeping it in hand. Tea hasn’t ever been something he liked having, but it was a requirement he often suffered. This particular blend was apparently the new fashion in Orlais, Goddard thought it tasted like all of the others he had drank; horrid.

“Oh?” Maxime covers his flinch expertly and sips carefully at his drink. It scalds his tongue uncomfortably, but he presses on.

“Forgive me, Your Grace, but, do you truly not know?”

“Florent was always a bit forgetful. Ever since he began to travel he would go months without sending a letter.” Maxime says wistfully. Florent was some sixteen years older than he, yet it hadn’t weighed on their brotherly relationship at all. He would go as far to say that he preferred him over his sister Collette, Maker rest her soul, but that spoke too ill of the dead and he kept his thoughts to himself. “We became worried when a year went by and we didn’t receive anything from him, since then we’ve nothing.”

“And that was when?”

“In eighty-eight Blessed, the seventeenth of Haring.” He sighs, they had waited fifty-five years until this day, with nothing from Florent and nothing to aid them in their search. “Here, I have the dated letter he sent my father. Florent speaks of a young Lord who remains nameless throughout.” Maxime pulls out a letter, aged through the years and worn by rereading. His wife had read it to him many a time, and it had felt intrusive at first; hearing about his brother’s lover, but it had faded in time.

“May I?” Goddard sets down his tea, internally thanking the Maker that he didn’t have to drink it, and extends a hand to take the aforementioned letter.

“Of course, Your Worship.” Maxime hands it over with an unsteady grip, the last words of his brother had such sentimental value that he could not price it. Handing it over to another, even someone as holy as the Herald of Andraste, made him anxious beyond description.

The scripture has been written over as the ink had faded in the sun, but the Orlesian swirls stay true to their nature. Goddard felt his chest burn as he read the words of an old lover. Florent had spoken so elegantly about him, his words became effortless poetry from the heart of a man so deeply in love. The praise was heartfelt and came naturally; Florent could see a fine chevalier in the young man, and that hadn’t been the double entendre he was inclined to use. He had a kindness often lost in knighthood, but Florent knew the young man could retain it, and if nothing else he held an aspiring gentleness and an acceptance of all things new. A formidable student, a formidable lover, and an all-around formidable man.

“Forgive me, Your Grace, I,” Goddard finds his tongue swelling his mouth as he reads the words, no longer bothering to hide the emotions that ran through his lungs. He coughs to stem the stammer in his throat. “The man, the one he speaks of was myself. Your brother and I had relations of a more intimate nature back then.”

“Ah.” Maxime says with a steady blush creeping across his cheeks. He had expected a thousand other reasons for the Inquisition’s interest in Florent, but to find out the Herald of Andraste once loved his brother was something unanticipated. Especially with what the letter had hinted at. “We assumed he had eloped with the young Lord, but I can see that is not true.”

“No. Not for lack of wanting, if he had asked me to run away with him I believe I would have.” Goddard reads the letter absentmindedly, before correcting himself, “That does not belittle my love for my family and the life I have now, I wouldn’t change that for the world.” The words that fall from his lips are entirely true, he had already had a taste of what life would be like without Yetta, and he would not have it again if he could avoid it.

“Of course, I never doubted that.” Maxime chuckles, “Have you made any progress on your search for Florent?”

“According to my Spymaster there is little evidence to say he left the Trevelyan estates. But _I_ watched him leave, I watched him ride away.” He scratches his jaw and chews his tongue at the memory. His sorrow had outweighed the fury on his father’s face, he hadn’t cared about much back then. Goddard’s own brother Fulton had been at his side as he wept through a broken heart, his other brother, Milward, was too young to understand, and Lizette had been too distant during his grief. “My vile father found us in my bedchambers back then, Florent was a tutor, _not a whore for my son_ ; he said, and he forced him to leave rather abruptly.”

“So, the question remains, Your Worship, where did he go and where has he been for the last half-age?”

“My father also threatened him should he ever return.” Goddard admits. He remembers the words that his father spat upon Florent, back then he couldn’t believe his father would be so cruel. But after all these years, and how he had matured, looking back he can see beyond the rose-tinted glass and see how foul his father was. “I fear now that, that perhaps, perhaps, perhaps he…” The words stick in his throat. No, it was too ill to think that his father could have hurt Florent, to have fatally punished him for loving his son. Bile rises in his throat, to think he had done something so similar mere months ago; threatening Sera to return on pain of death.

“Perhaps we shouldn’t continue this conversation, Your Worship.” Maxime offers. His eyes might be bad, but he can see how distressed the Inquisitor had become, and he understands exactly what the other man is trying to say. Admitting it outright was different to hinting at it, and he knew the grand game well enough that if he let Inquisitor Trevelyan say too much he would be forced to act upon it. Waging war against the Inquisition or simply just the Trevelyans wasn’t something he intended to do, especially not at such a time as this.

“You’re too kind, Your Grace, I assure you this will be investigated; Florent will be found.”

“This is not the time for sorrow, it is time to look to the future. After all, my daughter will be wed soon.” He says it gently, hoping to steer the conversation to something lighter, and to distract himself from coming to terms with the death of his brother. If Florent is dead, then it would not be so heavy a blow as it would be to the lover he had died for.

“Then I offer you my heartfelt congratulations.” Goddard hands the letter back gently. Grief begins to scale his spine, it’s as if he is giving away the last thing he has of Florent, even if it was not his to begin with.

“Perhaps you could extend them to the Emperor, I hear that he will have pride of place beside my Adeline at the ceremony.” Maxime sets down his empty cup and stands carefully, calling for the chevaliers who stand outside of the Inquisitor’s chambers.

“As always,” Goddard says, almost blindsided by the news. It seems Gaspard has finally chosen his bride, and the soon-to-be Grand Duke Baroulx stands in his personal chambers. “Please enjoy your stay in Skyhold, Your Highness.”

He keeps himself as composed as he can until he hears the second door shut, and he lets the silence overwhelm him. It was too much to bear. Not only did it feel like he was losing a war and losing his faith, but his family was slipping away, and he was becoming more like his tyrannical father than he ever had been before. With a sweep Goddard clears the top of his desk, sending bottles to the floor and scattering the letters with an agonised albeit muffled yell.

His body turns numb as he stares at the mess, ink slowly seeping into the rug under his feet, and shards of glass scattered around him. Goddard pushes them away with the toe of his boot and sits among the chaos, breathing heavy through his nose and cursing himself. If Florent was dead, which he sincerely hoped wasn’t the case, then he had all but admitted that his father had killed him. His ignorance had been his blessing, and playing at war had simply been a distraction for all these years.

Thom doesn’t confess to Lei about what happened in the morning. He wants to tell him, but the young man has done little but worry about trying to impress the stoic Warden Commander. His chatter is endless, and Thom does his best to keep up with the words that spill from his throat. It’s a wonder that he managed to get any of Cabot’s food inside of him. Lei seems less conflicted about his father refusing him, and with every minute that passes he seems more excited and anxious over the prospect of becoming a Grey Warden recruit.

He explains about a group of apostates that he travelled with during the blight. They called themselves The Grey Magi, and believed that they might be the ones to build up the Wardens in Ferelden after they had been decimated in Ostagar. Of course, when the blight had ended so did the appeal, and only a few of them made their way to King Alistair to request entrance to the order. Lei had been too young at the time, and whilst he had been a formidable fighter for his age, he didn’t believe the Wardens would take on a child. He feels another string of anxiety wind around his gut when he realises he might just have told Thom that he is a mage. The other man doesn’t make any move to ask about it, and he’s glad that his secret still remains as one.

Lei’s tongue stills in his mouth when he spies the Warden Commander rounding the second floor of the tavern. He has changed from his white leathers and instead dresses in only the blacks and boots of his Warden’s uniform. Without the leathers and silverlite it easy to see the muscles which hide beneath pale skin and red ink; an archer indeed. Andrastopher merely taps Lei’s shoulder as he passes, and the young man follows dutifully. There’s an expression of fear muddled with excitement as he goes, and it catches more than just Thom’s eyes in the crowded tavern. He swallows the rest of his drink quickly before he steps outside after the two men.

The Warden Commander clears the sparring circle, leaving the two current soldiers grumbling and cursing him out. He orders Lei to fetch two sparring weapons, purposefully leaving out what type of weapon to let the young man choose, and takes his place inside the circle. It catches some attention from around the upper courtyard, and Thom can see a few faces peering through the windows of the tavern. For someone as antisocial as Andrastopher he seems to be making a lot of noise for this event. He can admit he’s slightly excited to see the Warden Commander fight, after he had thought about it all morning he can imagine the man is quite skilled. Lei hadn’t been wrong. To slay an archdemon was a massive achievement, Thom had tangled with dragons before, but he could never imagine doing it alone even if it didn’t have a tainted army swarming it.

Lei returns with two sparring sticks, handing one to Cousland and stepping inside the ring himself. Thom can see the young man is still nervous, his shifts on his feet and wrings the weapon between his hands. He feels the weight of The Iron Bull stepping beside him, Dorian at his side with an enthusiastic smile tugging at his lips.

“I didn’t think you were the type to watch sparring, Dorian.” Thom says, trying to stare passed the weighty chest of the Iron Bull to speak to him. Surely two soldiers fighting wasn’t anything compared to the flighty magic tricks of Tevinter mages.

“Two men, barely dressed, beating each other with sticks? I thought you’d be the type to sink to making appalling jokes about it.” He quips with laughter edging into his voice, “though, I suppose it’s the sort of thing you’ve come to enjoy as of late as well.” Thom chews his tongue trying to think of a retort that isn’t a childish bite, but Bull shushes them quickly; eager to watch the fight unfold. Still his thoughts begin to tangle, was this really what people thought of him, against the tide of not actually finding a reason to care.

“Are there any rules to this?” Lei asks, a nervous tremor finding a way into his wrists. Fighting demons and aggressive bogfishers in the Fallow Mire was completely different to this, and he wasn’t too sure which was more terrifying. Thom had told him that the Warden wasn’t that bad of a man. But facing him, a man too tall and too slim in every aspect of his being, he looked more Terror demon than human.

“Would you ask darkspawn that?” He asks, weighing the weapon in two rotations around his body. Lei almost thinks he has made a mistake choosing a pole for a weapon, some bowmen are expertly trained in hand to hand combat as well as long range precision; especially those who were deemed strong enough to wield the absurdly heavy war-bows.

“No.”

“Then you have your answer.” Andrastopher swings his staff with a measured grace, forcing Lei to fall low to avoid it, dodging to one side and circling the other man. “Darkspawn are relentless.” He adds, bringing the staff over his head and cracking it into the snow, inches from Lei’s feet. Lei shuffles back once more, stepping backwards as Andrastopher repeats the action again and again until Lei feels the fencing of the sparring circle against his back. He has to bring his own sparring stick up to take the blow, leaving his torso exposed, and vulnerable to the swift kick that Andrastopher delivers.

Thom winces at the violent move, sparring usually wasn’t so brutal, but it wasn’t as if darkspawn would hold anything back and any recruits should know that. Or perhaps the reason why he had never seen the Warden Commander fight was because he was this cruel in his sparring. This sort of fighting wouldn’t be taken kindly by any soldier in the Inquisition, he daren’t think about the people in the cells he had fought with. Lei grunts with the pain, his arms held up as Cousland’s staff cracks down on his own once more, and the foot is embedded into his side again. Andrastopher repeats the action a last time before stepping away to the other side of the ring, seemingly knowing that young man doesn’t have a way out and not giving him the option to escape. He doesn’t give any resting time before he begins his assault again, though Lei makes sure not to be backed up against the edges of the ring.

He dodges backwards, and low, strafing to either side and even running towards Andrastopher with the intent of throwing him off balance. The Warden Commander holds almost every advantage, with his height, formal training, his experience in the Deep Roads, and his sheer strength hidden in spindled muscles. But Lei was always taught that a small target is one of the best things a warrior could be, a larger enemy doesn’t make it a better fighter. Not that the words had ever helped him; he had been taller than everyone in his clan, and they often ran rings around him to taunt him. Lei kicks out heavily, trying to catch Andrastopher in the shin, but the Warden moves swiftly, using Lei’s lack of balance against him to shove him to the ground with his own mimic of the attack. Cousland circles again, giving Lei a sliver of time to get back to his feet, before he cleaves his weapon across the sparring area, and forces the young man back against the edge.

It’s a dance that continues for a while. Andrastopher doesn’t seem to tire as he fights on, and even when none of the small gathering crowd cheer for the Grey Warden he continues as aggressive as he had been. Lei does his best to keep up with the arching sweeps and the constant fear of being kicked repeatedly. His legs and torso ache from the endless abuse they suffer from Andrastopher’s shins, it hadn’t taken him long to figure out that the Warden’s strength was in his legs more than anything else. Lei just couldn’t figure out how to counteract a man who fought like this.

Andrastopher manages to trap him against the fence again, Lei red-faced, though sturdily keeping up with the consistent abuse. He has to smack away the Warden Commander’s shin with his sparring staff, which lets Cousland bring his weapon in a heavy arch down across his collarbone. The blow doesn’t hit, and Lei can’t hear anything for the pounding in his ears, but Andrastopher is no longer at his side.

“Your rights to conscription and recruitment have been restricted to the cells, as you well know, Your Lordship.” Josephine called from upon the steps to the Grand Hall. Her voice is commanding when she needs it, and the crowds silence as she speaks. It reminds Thom of the reasons why he felt the flutter of attraction to her before, she was gentle yet forceful, and she did scare him a little bit when she truly fell into the grand game. But the feeling had vanished, slipped from within him and replaced by something more consuming.

“Forgive me, Lady Montilyet, will you restrict the blight to the cells of Skyhold as well?” Andrastopher takes the other man’s sparring staff from him, holding them both in one hand and rolling out his shoulders. “He has not been inducted into the order.”

Lei can’t help but feel like he has failed the test that Cousland had put him through, and he feels deflated once again, leaning against the fencing of the sparring circle. He watches as Lady Montilyet returns inside, and runs his hands through his cropped hair. Was there something wrong with him, he thinks, he hasn’t managed to find a home anywhere and it’s not for a lack of trying. He never found a place in Clan Mi’Durgen, the Trevelyans hadn’t offered a home to him either, and now he was deemed too useless for the Wardens.

“You’re a strong warrior, Lei, the Fereldan Grey Wardens would be honoured to have you.” Andrastopher states, offering his hand, and successfully stopping the man’s spiralling thoughts.

“What? But I just _lost_.” Lei balks, staring at the limb with furrowed brows. The Grey Wardens wouldn’t win any wars if they only recruited failures.

“You defended yourself remarkably, and proved strength and fortitude through speed and determination. When I leave this fortress, you’re welcome to accompany me.” He says.

“I… Thank you, _thank you_ , Ser.” Lei nods, taking Andrastopher’s hand is shaking it gently. It’s a careful agreement that settles between them; with Josephine’s earlier words there’s nothing solid but their handshake, yet Lei doesn’t feel like he’d want to back out even when given the option. Thom’s beside him with a grin and a slap on his back, proud that the young man is finally getting some good news.

“The offer stands, Ser Rainier.” Andrastopher adds as an afterthought as he leaves to return the training weapons to their racks. Thom shrugs as a way to explain it to Lei, the offer might stand but it was never a choice solely for him. Under protection of the Grey Warden’s No One could live out the remainder of his life without his chevalier status coming back to haunt him, it might even grant him the chance of seeing his daughter. But the life of a Warden is not a long one, nor is it glamourous, and with the events at Adamant they’re more hated than ever.

Travelling could be an awfully lonely business. No One hasn’t ever been quite aware of the long stretches of winding roads and having to do everything yourself until this moment, knowing that things at Skyhold were completely different. But this was his self-inflicted punishment, to walk these miles barefooted and suffer everything they may inflict. Staying at the mountain fortress was a luxury that he had fallen into, and he hadn’t yet made the attempt to relieve himself from it. Guiltily, he admitted, he didn’t want to.

The sickness that puts him off his food lingers until it turns into hunger and No One has to force himself to eat. He can imagine that what weight he had gained from eating in Skyhold would fall off of him in the coming weeks. He had once been such a fat little boy, with puffed-out cheeks, and the threat of a waddling walk. Now those memories only serve as a barrier to which he has concealed himself. He became ragged bones hiding under haggard skin, old strength fading in favour of whatever the werewolf had done to him. With a hefty sigh he stops picking the dirt from between his toes, it had been a useless task, and set about travelling again.


	32. Sleeping Soldier

Two days had passed since Thom had taken a few chunks out of Goddard’s hide, and neither of them had apologised for their actions as of yet. Thom had spent his time sparring with Lei, who was desperate in his attempts to become a better warrior to impress the Warden Commander. The young man’s fighting ability was infallible, and with the knocks and bruises that Lei managed to wound him with, Thom began to forget his worry for No One’s safety. The feeling still lingered when he wasn’t in the ring, but Lei was a welcomed distraction until he could see the blonde again.

Thom had said his goodbyes to the young man, and had asked him to remain in Skyhold, at least for the time being. The Herald might come around to accepting the him at some point, regardless of how often Goddard disappointed him, he had moments indescribable. Lei’s yearning to know his father wasn’t exactly hidden, and Thom wanted to help them both reconcile, but it wasn’t the easiest task he had ever applied himself to.

Andrastopher had been there at the gates as the Inquisitor’s group were preparing to set off for the Emprise du Lion. There was a tension hiding in the air, disrupted by the three dogs with wagging tails and Goddard’s very obvious discomfort around the animals. It wasn’t clear who was angry with who at the moment, for all Thom knew he was just sensing something that he was creating with the Inquisitor. He sent a nod to the Warden Commander, still feeling slightly at odds for lying to him. But it had been requested by No One, and betraying the man’s words wasn’t something he wanted to do, or make any sort of habit of. It wasn’t exactly the sort of lie that would cause any harm either, so there was little guilt to be found.

A nervous coil had set itself in Thom’s gut as he sat waiting atop his courser. They had packed light knowing that scouts would meet them on the outskirts of Sahrnia, and had stuck with their usual two tents; which meant Thom would more than likely be sharing with Goddard. A few days ago he hadn’t minded, but after their unresolved argument it didn’t bear well sleeping in the same area as him. If things got too bad he was sure that The Iron Bull and Dorian wouldn’t mind making room for him; mildly sure at any rate.

Bull is the last to saddle his horse, a large beast of an animal that could carry his weight like others couldn’t. With a call from Goddard the four men set off, their horses parting through the crowded bridge. Though the Inquisitor wears a common plumed helmet people still turn to him and raise their hands in affection, he grabs a few; squeezing them as he trots by to accept their blessings and prayers.

Thom has to bite his tongue at the adoration, if they knew how he had ignored his own son they might not be so receptive of him. Yet he can’t discount the fact that Goddard is the Herald of Andraste, and he had become so much larger than himself. Perhaps, in a minuscule way that Thom won’t ever admit to, he can understand why he’s taking it so slow to decide whether or not to accept Lei as his son. It’s still a cruel thing to do, Lei wasn’t just a thing to be toyed with, but Goddard has his reasons however despicable they may be. It reminded him too much of the Grand Game, and the way Orlesian nobles would flaunt or destroy everything they could get their twisted little fingers on. It won’t stop Thom from scowling for the rest of their journey, and it won’t force him to apologise either.

Back at Skyhold, Andrastopher watches as a few construction workers begin to make their plans to repair the ramparts out by Chevalier’s crook. He can’t hear what they’re saying, but it’s evident enough that they’re pointing at the small structure and gesturing for it to be removed. The Warden Commander is beside them in an instant, walking with armoured footsteps to gather their attention without the need to call out.

If it was being dismantled now, Andrastopher can only imagine it was happening without permission of Chevalier or Ser Rainier. A fool could figure out that there was something larger to having the structure, and eventually its owner, removed. With his minimal ties to the deserter he knows he needs to be the one to go through his belongings first. The man could have anything incriminating in there, and whilst Andrastopher had done no wrong, he has no doubt that the Spymaster would twist it until he was under several counts of illegal action. Being a Grey Warden can only protect him so far, no matter his rank. Conscripting his jailer was always an option, though he hadn’t yet had the opportunity to employ it.

“Apologies, My Lord, but-” A worker says, standing from their squatting position to stop the Warden Commander from passing. They hold a hand up to force him to pause in his steps, but it is shakily lowered as Andrastopher raises a brow in question.

“Your Lordship.” Andrastopher corrects. He may be a Warden, but he was one of the very few that still held lands and titles. A fact that he would not have forgotten by others, even if he belonged to the Qun himself and any land claims were useless under the religion.

“Apologies, Your Lordship, but we’ll be working here for a fortnight to fix this up. It’s not safe to be up here.”

“Then perhaps you should remain on the ground.” He says, stepping through the group of workers and dropping down into the Chevalier’s home space. He has walked this path before, and it’s with his usual unstructured grace that he clambers down to scuff at the fire pit. The ashes are cold, so Thom hadn’t been lying when he told him Chevalier had left Skyhold; only that he hadn’t any idea where the man had gone.

“Ser- Your Lordship, I must ask-” The worker begins again, calling loudly so they needn’t cross the unsteady path.

“ _Must_ you?” Andrastopher asks, turning back to the group. There’s no response to the unexpected quip, and he takes that as unspoken consent to enter the tent. It’s well-structured from what he can see, built with wooden beams and layered slats, all concealed under old banners and tent materials. The room is cramped, he has to walk on his knees for a lack of ability to stand, but there’s some room for manoeuvrability. 

“Lady Leliana has ordered refortifications, we’re not to allow anyone up here.” A voice calls, muffled by the distance. Andrastopher believes it’s an attempt to scare him into leaving, news of him being reprimanded by Lady Josephine had made it’s rounds already. He can’t say it’s birthed the most flattering of rumours, but if people believe he’s playing by the Inquisition’s rules then it’s hardly an issue. It’s not like he can imagine people actually believe that he and Josephine engage in a more masochistic kind of intimacy, he and Zevran had their moments but, no, surely not, he thinks.

“Feel free to fetch the sanctimonious Sister if you wish.” He shouts from inside the small tent, pilfering through the books quickly and shaking them for any loose sheets. Leliana wouldn’t be too happy about the rumours; he wonders if a little schmoozing of the ambassador was needed. “Perhaps she’ll sprout a rosebush to remove me.” He scoffs to himself. Would that she had died in Lothering, he thinks, things in Skyhold may have been less draining. He removes the thought when he hears receding footsteps, no doubt they’ve taken his words as literal and have gone to fetch the spymaster to deal with him herself. No foul, he thinks, she’s unlikely to fling him off Skyhold’s fortifications at any rate.

There’s little to find inside of the well-built tent, even through the eyes of a Ben-Hassrath there’s nothing here. Andrastopher roughly runs his fingers across the wall, pulling at each stone until one falls away. He stems his reaction when the small cavern is empty, and runs his hands through the hole hoping for something else concealed within; but he gains nothing but the knowledge that something had been removed previously. Apart from books of a varying nature, all titles now memorised, and unquestionable stains on stolen pillows, Chevalier had removed everything that could even be linked to him. The man had burnt his letters previously, and the fire pit held nothing but frozen ash.

Andrastopher replaces the stone carefully, knowing that Leliana will order the home searched, and empties one of the cleanest pillows of all the feathers before shoving _Ravish Me; A Tale of Beasts_ by _Emmet Saile_ inside and folding it carefully. Though there’s little to take he can smell a weak lingering scent of lyrium; a strange thing for a chevalier, Chevalier couldn’t be a mage after all. If he was an addict to the blue substance, then that’s something that Andrastopher could use against him. King Alistair had once explained to him the addiction rates to the element, and even now in Skyhold he could see the effects of withdrawal affecting their commander.

“Warden Commander, I’ll have to insist you leave this area immediately, and to remind you that you are a _guest_ here in Skyhold.” A new voice demands from the other side of the tent.

“Of course.” Andrastopher replies after a moment, making sure to cause enough noise to indicate that he was still rummaging around, before stepping out.

“And I’ll have to take that.” The man says, nodding to the pillow case that Andrastopher has in hand. It’s clear enough that it’s wrapped around something, and he had orders not to let anything leave the premises. Leliana hadn’t told him why, but he trusts her despite how little she tells him.

“What’s your name?” Cousland asks, picking the easiest way to try and intimidate someone of a lesser standing.

“Oscar Altham, Ser.” He salutes, then holds out his hand to take the disguised object. “Apologies, but Lady Leliana has ordered it.” Oscar adds, unfolding the pillowcase and flipping the book to the right way up. He bites his inner cheek when he reads the title, knowing full well that it was naught but smutty literature poorly encased in the minimum amount possible of bad writing. He feels the Warden Commander’s hand pressure his shoulder as he begins to leave the small crook.

“It’s so hard to find _decent_ company these days, Oscar Altham.” Andrastopher whispers lowly, his fingers trailing down on the scout’s chest and watching the red bloom across his cheeks. Oscar feels his heart thudding and sucks his cheek in his mouth, willing the tinge in his face to disappear. The Warden Commander might look peculiar, with his oddly angled and curling ears. But he had height, and a strength so recently displayed, that it gave a depth to him that outweighed his abnormal features.

 There’s as much behind Andrastopher’s words as there was in Chevalier’s home, still it’s a thrilling thought to know he can still bring people to fluster. What a pity, he thinks, there’s little sign that Chevalier intends to return to Skyhold. Perhaps Thom had known this when he had asked him where the man had gone. Which meant that Thom knows where Chevalier intends to rebuild himself, and from what he knows, Thom will go there at some point too. Andrastopher convinced himself to let whatever is happening play out. If nothing happens, then he’ll drop a few hints and have the Inquisition figure out to look for him, and knowing he’s a chevalier deserter can hardly hinder matters.

For now, Andrastopher is working on entertaining the Inquisitor’s bastard son; Lei, a man he finds in the training yard more often than not. His plan had been to manipulate the young man into finding him more appealing than Trevelyan, as it stands, he didn’t think it would have been so easy to get him on side. Still, Lei is a strong recruit for the Grey Wardens, and it benefits Andrastopher in more ways than simply having something to hold over Goddard. If he still holds that promise within a week then he will talk to Lei about promoting him to be his apprentice at some point in the future, or his _First_ , as the Dalish say.

He can selfishly admit that he had another reason for inducting Lei into the order and under his personal command. Goddard had branded Andrastopher’s own son, Maxence, a war criminal, and had forcefully recruited him into the Inquisition along with all the other mages in Redcliffe. Granted he didn’t much care about the mage rebellion or the other seized mages, everything was futile in the wake of the Qun, but that was his son. He was only repaying what was done to him, though it is a shame that Fulton had left early, and he hadn’t yet had the opportunity to work on Twyla. Lei had been a blessing.

That night, the Inquisitor and his three companions manage to get rooms in a small tavern. The hostess is more than happy to have the Herald stay, she even offers the room free of charge; though the bargain doesn’t exactly apply to his companions. Goddard pays for them all regardless, showing his Trevelyan amulet and giving note of his signature and wax seal, leaving a healthy tip as well. Thom’s glad he’s avoided having to sleep in a tent with him, no words have passed between them other than a few barked commands when a few shades stumbled upon them. The journey would have been uncharacteristically quiet if it wasn’t for Bull’s boisterous laughter, the topic of dragons had come up more than once and Goddard had avoided making any clear decisions about the three nesting in the Emprise. They weren’t experts at dragon hunting, though they had taken down a few already, but if they wanted to reopen a trade route to Sahrnia; then surely the beasts had to go.

Trevelyan remembers the letter that Emperor Gaspard had sent him about wyvern hunting, and wonders whether the soon-to-be-wed royal would still wish to go. Perhaps he could even convince him to hunt a dragon. Regardless, Maxime had stated the wedding wouldn’t be for a few months, and truthfully nobody was supposed to know that the Emperor had chosen his bride yet. He wonders if he’s marrying so quickly in order to have an heir to betroth to King Alistair’s unborn child. It would be the ideal way to foster a good nature between the two countries, as both monarchs are now tied to spouses, or will be soon.

Thom thinks about No One as he rests in the small room for one. It’s more of a cupboard than a chamber, but he can’t blame the owner because traffic must have increased tenfold when the sky opened. No doubt she could make a pretty coin from this area. He takes off his socks for a moment, placing his feet on the dusty floor and feeling the chill from the stones seep through, it isn’t long before his feet take refuge under his bed covers. No One was out there barefooted, and Thom couldn’t even stand a cold floor beside a fire. At least No One had layers of clothing upon him, thick enough to make him look twice as large as he actually was, in order to keep himself warm. The thought was mostly comforting.

Those thoughts lead to something else. Imagining No One without those heavy layers, without any layers at all. In his mind he can piece together everything he has seen of No One’s figure, his gaunt features and jagged bones, hair speckled skin laced with scars; Thom bites his tongue and shifts his hips with the swell in his groin. There wasn’t much in the room that he could use to clean himself up afterwards that wouldn’t make it obvious as to what he had done. Bugger it, he thinks, unlacing his breeches and taking his cock in hand.

They set off as early as they can the next morning; with rested horses and a gifted loaf of sweetbread. Goddard had already delayed them too much, Thom grunts out his agreement at the Herald’s words, they had stayed just so he could kiss the hands of some bloody blind chevalier. That same chevalier who had forced No One to leave Skyhold, he thinks bitterly. The weather gets remarkably warmer when they reach the bottom of the Frostbacks, the air still retains a winter chill, but that will dull as they venture further south. Scouts still work to clear the trade routes, which don’t enter Skyhold from the north, because a recent avalanche has them blocked. It would have made a quicker journey to travel south to the Emprise du Lion if the mountains hadn’t shifted themselves so violently.

Thom has to unwind his scarf to stop his hair sticking to his neck, winds from Tevinter bring a rare warmth to the area not often found in the Winter months. He should have had it cut before he left, it’s already too long for his liking. For a moment he thinks of the braid that No One had tied his hair in, and wonders whether he could mimic it to keep his neck cool. The Iron Bull’s laughter stops his thoughts from becoming too dour; he does miss the man terribly, more so after last night. Kisses simply weren’t enough, and hadn’t ever been one for a slow courtship.

“Are you and the Herald going to act like spoilt children for the entire journey? Or should I practice my reaction for when you inevitably make up?” Dorian says from beside him. He is completely unfazed by the weather so far, but he had enough layers on to make Thom wonder if he’s wearing all of the clothes he had packed. His scarf was wrapped high and tight around his neck, and Thom can imagine that’s for more than just keeping him warm.

“Hah, _you_ , talking about _spoilt children_.” Thom laughs and glances up ahead. Bull is distracting Goddard with more talk of dragons; Dorian must have already had his fill for the journey, and Thom knows how much the man can talk about the winged beasts.

“Exactly, I have a wealth of knowledge on the subject.” He scoffs, raising his nose in a mocking superiority.

“You and your father made up, didn’t you?” He asks, deciding it’s better not to dawdle around the subject.

“Ah, I’m afraid I’m rather lacking in that area of expertise.” Dorian says. His joking nature withering on the subject of fathers and sons.

“Listen, Dorian, I don’t know what went on in the Gull and Lantern-”

“Thom, whatever it is that you’re searching for, if it involves my father I’d ask you to leave it well enough alone.” He snaps, clearing his throat and looking away. Thom feels guilt stab at him, whatever had happened back then was bad, and probably much worse than Thom had originally imagined. “Continue brooding if you must.” He adds, trying to lighten the mood he had so recently soured.

“Just talk some sense into the Herald, please, Lei wants to know him, and the man deserves a chance even if his father is a prick.” Thom nods towards Goddard, laughing along with The Iron Bull. A royal prick, Thom thinks. It takes a certain kind of man to deny a son and still find himself enjoying his days without any form of guilt hanging over him.

“Ah, now I understand.” Dorian nods, visibly relaxing once more, “I can’t promise it will go well, but I suppose for a friend I could make an attempt.”

“Friends, are we?” He grins. Thom can remember when he had first seen the man, waltzing into Haven like he owned the place. He had judged him unfairly back then, he had even said some things that would make him a hypocrite if he spoke of them again. But they had both spent almost two years with the Inquisition now, and _friends_ was a good name for them both. It’s difficult not to become amicable when you’re fighting side by side against a common enemy, even if a darkspawn magister god wasn’t exactly the most typical of things.

“Me? Friends with a hairy lummox who hasn’t yet discovered the miracles of soap? I could do worse.” He offers his own smile, not the practiced one he uses in front of nobles, but a true smile. “I have done worse come to think of it.” Dorian laughs.

“Thank you, Dorian.”

“You can thank me when it goes well.” He says, rolling out his shoulders and straightening his posture. Dorian hadn’t been very good at riding horses two years ago, but things had changed, people had changed. Thom glances at the Inquisitor and wonders exactly how Goddard had changed since he had recruited him. He hadn’t even known he was the Herald of Andraste when they first met, _an agent of the Inquisition_ he had said, but Goddard hadn’t exactly known who he was recruiting either. The Thom Rainier back then wouldn’t have joined up, and he sure as the void wouldn’t have been sought out and recruited.

Dorian tries to push Thom onto other topics of conversation, away from the subject of fathers and the Inquisitor. He knew of the man’s perilous relationship with his own father, a man he hadn’t spoken to since the last age. When they had met Halward Pavus in the Gull and Lantern, Goddard had convinced Dorian to give his father a second chance, then when they had spoken after, Goddard had almost wept in anger. It brought out a confession from him, a sense of guilt in asking Dorian to do something he couldn’t do himself. Though the situations had been similar, both men could admit that Goddard hadn’t been unfortunate enough to endure the threat of blood magic, and that Dorian had suffered far worse in his own trials.

Goddard told him of a lover, a man of all things. Florent, he had whispered, so carefully, as if the name should shatter upon his lips. How he had searched the Orlesian camps, and listened for any mention of his name. How he had done that for a decade before he had been forced to concede, to surrender and beg mercy, unarmed and unarmoured, from Prince Maric on behalf of him and his troops. Looking for him after that would have been twisted until it was treasonous. He explained that Dorian shouldn’t make any decisions based on Goddard’s life nor his choices, and, surprisingly, that he was undeniably proud of him whatever he may choose. Proud of him for standing up to his father instead of hiding away like he had done.

The memories had given Dorian a lot to think about when he had heard about the bastard child, old enough to be his own man now.  He hadn’t always been the best at talking about optimism and those kinds of feelings, but he and the Inquisitor had shared brandy on a night, and Dorian knew he might need one sooner rather than later. For all his faults, The Inquisitor felt like a sort of father to him, and a good one he was at that. Though it seemed beyond him to realise it, and Dorian wasn’t going to tell him for fear of embarrassing himself.

Lei was a different situation, and Dorian could understand the difficulties that the man might face, the difficulties that he would no doubt overcome to accept his son. He had faith in the Inquisitor to do the right thing, and although he disagrees with his actions in dealing with him thus far; he knows he’ll come true in the end. But Dorian can admit he’s not too fond of father son situations, and he’s been actively avoiding talking to him about it. The whole thing needed a delicate hand, and Thom wading in wasn’t going to help anything.

No One had walked through another night, believing he could make it through one more before he would need to sleep. He wanders from the trodden road trying to find a safe spot to rest, trusting that it would be better to sleep soundly that just drop off near somewhere that others passed by. His night terrors could be violent, and he wasn’t about to injure someone unwillingly because he was ill at ease in his dreams.

It’s only when he returns to the road, without a place to sleep, that he realises that perhaps he’s not alone. There’s a quiet knocking over and over; distant from his guess, and tedious enough to peak his curiosity. No One crouches low when he spots the source of the noise, the repetitive crashing of something on wood. It’s a Shade beating on the side of an overturned caravan. There’s a few fade puddles lingering in the snow, so whatever other demons had spawned there, someone or something had already killed them. With a grimace No One spots the probable someone, face down in the snow, lying in red and white. He stands carefully, keeping close to the trees and watching the demon continue its assault. It seems void-bent on getting into the carriage, and it’s not long before No One realises exactly why it’s doing that. Bloodstains lead from a patch in the snow into the caravan; someone else is hiding in there.

He still has Caldwell’s dagger strapped to his waist, it wouldn’t be too hard to take the demon down. But the risk, there’s nothing to say that whoever was wounded was still alive in there. No One bites his tongue as he thinks it over, if he saves whoever is in there, then they can place him, and he needs anonymity in his actions. Though, if there is someone in there, and he leaves them trapped and injured, what kind of man does that make him.

No One moves carefully until he’s standing behind a thicker tree, unsheathes his dagger, and whistles sharply. The Shade doesn’t notice the noise and continues to attack the caravan. He whistles again, with no reply, and then again, waiting for a response. Nothing comes from the upturned carriage, perhaps there’s nobody in there, and he’s just risking his own life for a corpse. With a concealed huff and a roll of his eyes, he whistles again, louder and longer than before. The demon halts in it’s mission, the unnatural sound of shifting air takes the place of the banging, and then something more human. Muffled enough that No One can’t quit make out the words, but it’s coming from the wreckage.

He waits until the demon starts hammering on the carriage once more before he makes his move. Light footsteps, one arm in front of his chest as if it carried a shield, the other raised with dagger in hand. The Shade doesn’t put up much of a fight when Caldwell’s dagger splits whatever it calls a skull, and he steps back quickly to avoid the sizzling puddle it forms in the snow.

“The demon’s gone, but scavengers will be here soon, so you should get moving.” No One offers. He wipes his dagger onto his breeches, staring at the glinting pommel; and how it bears the flaming eye of the Inquisition. For so long he had thought of it as _Caldwell’s Dagger_ , because it was his weapon, but it was a dagger made for the Inquisition like a thousand others had been. Many members of the Inquisition travel through Gherlen’s Pass, No One thinks, it wouldn’t be so out of place to find a dagger lost here.  But if he dropped it near Lake Calenhad, or when he was meeting the Green-Eyed Boy, it would place someone there, and it might just be enough to place him specifically.

With regret he tugs the belt from under his thick coat, and sheathes the dagger. Leaving the two combined items atop of the overturned caravan with a sigh, and he walks away. If anything comes of it, whoever he had just rescued would thank the Inquisition for their intervention, and they wouldn’t be able to place No One precisely in that area. He wasn’t even allowed to carry an official dagger of the order, because he wasn’t part of it. Bearing heraldry of a group you had no ties to was an easy way to get yourself killed. Though he can admit that he could do worse than bearing the Inquisition’s symbol, he had seen the cruelty that people could do to a man with the wrong symbol on his arm.

He doesn’t bother looking back, too afraid that someone might climb from the caravan and see his face, and walks on feeling the slightest bit better. His mind dances with thoughts of Oswin Carter, what if whoever he had just saved was cruel like him, or had intentions of the worst degree. No One couldn’t have known if that was the case or not, and so he absolved himself of any wrongdoing. He had simply killed a demon on his way to Lake Calenhad. Not that he would get anything for it, nor did he want any sort of reward; still he felt uneasy. He doesn’t have to wonder what Thom might have done in this situation, no doubt he would have killed the Shade and helped the injured back to safety; he was that sort of man. A _hero_ , that’s what Tethras called him.

A few hours pass; uneventful, leading them into the late evening. Thom doesn’t want to ask Dorian again to have words with the Inquisitor about Lei, especially when he realises that Bull is distracting Goddard to keep him away from himself. They ride two abreast, so he has the companionship of the mage all day. Which isn’t a bad thing, considering the Tevinter has a lot to say about almost anything, and the chatter is calming and knowledgeable. He almost wants to ask him about his relationship with The Iron Bull, but he’s not sure what kind of relationship it is. If it’s just sex or something else, but it makes him think of himself and No One, and that in turn makes him think about what he thought about last night.

Dorian hasn’t spoken for a few minutes by now, instead he focuses on the journey that Thom is going through in his head. By any standards he’s far too expressive to have been any sort of Orleisan soldier; nobody likes the Grand Game when you can’t play well.

“What?” Thom asks, finally noticing the mage’s stare.

“Nothing, just rather glad to know you’re actually capable of higher thought.” Dorian laughs softly. “Without the need for a word puzzle, of course.” Thom grins at him.

Goddard points out a small group of tents to one side, all spaced around a fire with some sort of meat stew boiling upon it. One of the occupants points out the travelling men, well-armed and armoured, and it rouses whoever sleeps in the tents. For a moment Thom thinks it’s an ambush. They had dealt with groups of raiders and bandits before, and an inviting meal and a warm fire was an easy way to settle someone’s defences. As they get closer Thom thinks they don’t look like they mean any harm, they look like farmers and traders, and they have no guards with them. Though that isn’t to say they’re not hiding in wait.

“Nothing in the trees, Boss, they’re genuine travellers.” Bull whispers. It’s the only confirmation they need as they draw their horses to a slower walk, fully intending to stop and rest with the others if they’ll have them. Goddard takes off his own helm and indicates for Thom to take off his as well, and it’s only then that the travellers start to recognise who he is. Whispers of _that’s the Herald_ , or _The Inquisitor_ , fill the air along with the sound of knees hitting the snow. Dorian supresses a laugh at their reverence, and it brings a comfort to Thom; who’s glad he isn’t the only one who thinks it’s unnecessary. Nonetheless, the group are more than happy to have them stay for the night. Meeting the Herald of Andraste was an honour for them, and having four fierce looking men in their encampment was sure to deter any ill-motivated people.

Soon after their introductions they’re sat down to eat, Bull pushes his way into getting the first portion of stew; much to the digress of the group. He’s eating before Goddard had even been served, and it’s clear enough to Thom that Bull is testing for poisons by throwing himself on the line. From what Thom knows, Qunari have a stronger resistance to certain things, and what could kill a human might only send one to sleep. Still, he waits his turn until Dorian’s poorly disguised worry melts away.

The Inquisitor acts unexpectedly civil towards him, as if nothing of the past few days had actually happened. For half a moment Thom believes he has been forgiven for his actions, but it dawns on him that the Inquisitor is simply acting the part. Something that the Herald has been doing more often than not lately, and it’s beginning to wear Thom down in all the worst kinds of ways, if only because he seems to be the only one noticing it. That, or, his companions merely play the Game a lot better than he ever could.

Dorian manages to discreetly place bits of magic, the explanation having gone completely over Thom’s head earlier, to wake and warn him of any intruders to the camp. Which means he’s spending the night with Goddard, and has no chance of being put on watch for a blessed few hours. A pity, he’d hoped that he could take watch whilst the Inquisitor slept, and snuck in at a later time in the night whence the man would be asleep.

It’s tense when they both settle down in their retrospective bed rolls. Without a crowd to entertain Goddard has no reason not to be vicious towards Thom, yet the old man falls straight to sleep without a minute of fighting. It is probably the first time that he was glad the Inquisitor was able to fall asleep at a moment’s notice, he half wished he had cultivated the ability in his own years. But he had once told Thom it was born of a life whence a sleeping soldier was a dead one, not all too uncommon, but when you’re on the losing side of a war and you’re the tyrannical invaders it can become perilous.

“Why can’t you just accept him?” Thom whispers, mostly to himself to try and kill the knot that forms in his gut. He was anxious on behalf of No One and Lei, the former more than the latter; at least he knew the young man was safe in Skyhold.

“Varying circumstances.” Goddard said, breathing deep into a sigh. Ah, Thom thought, sleeping soldiers also needed the ability to awaken at a moment’s notice. Either that or the Herald was brilliant at faking it, which wouldn’t surprise Thom in the least.

“You’re the _Herald of Andraste,_ if anyone can do whatever they please, it’s the man with the blessing of the Maker’s bride.” He says, gesturing to his own left hand and wiggling his fingers. Not many would want to argue against the Inquisitor’s wishes nowadays, perhaps when he was a heretic and a zealot, but now he is holy and revered. Even if someone didn’t believe in all of that, he still had a large army behind him that was growing steadily.

 “I am also just a man, with a family amidst a war fighting against foreign invaders.” Goddard turns over to face Thom, his eyes still closed as he tries to sway Thom from continuing the conversation. He can deal with this later, they still have a few days of lengthy riding ahead of them.

“Lei _is_ your family.” He points out with a frown.

“If I may do whatever I please, then I will make my own decisions, and not be influenced by men who meddle in things they do not understand.” He huffs, drawn into the argument regardless of his intentions. “Go to sleep, Thom.”

“I understand it plain enough.” He says, ignoring Goddard’s command that sent him to bed as if he were a child.

“You understand it from the mouth of another man, I endure this, as I have endured this for years.” Goddard hisses. It’s too much for him to say, far too telling, but he continues anyway. “Do you think that if I accept him as my own, his life will instantaneously become a better one?”

“Knowing your father is a good way to be.” Thom says, pushing himself up until he is sitting, trying to prove his point in a nicer way than he had tried before.

“I haven’t known my father since the day I joined the Orlesian military, I didn’t know him when he fell ill, nor upon his deathbed when he begged to see me.” He admits, mimicking Thom’s position, and biting out his confession. His father Aaric had pleaded with Lizette to fetch him, but Goddard remained outside of the estates as Aaric lay dying. He remembers sitting beside Twyla talking of baby names for her fourth child, and Wakefield nervously confessing that he and Una were also trying for their first. Meeting with Aaric would have spoilt it, he had waited forty-five years, and he could wait a little longer. He hadn’t, and Goddard didn’t feel anything for his passing but rage. “And I tell you now, Thom Rainier, that I do not regret a single second of the years I spent without him.”

“So, you deny Lei his because you hated your own father? What about Fulton, and Twyla? They _idolise_ you, you’re acting like a bloody prick but you’re a good man deep down,” Thom stabs with his finger to amplify his words “at least you were once.” He adds with a huff.

“And you’re so irreproachable?” Goddard snaps, a little too loud for his liking. They’re sharing an encampment with others, and he had a performance to play even if he liked it or not.

“I do my best to atone, to be moral and to help others.” He bites, thinking of how far he has come with No One, and how he has the ability to do good by some people.

“ _Atone_.” Goddard scoffs sarcastically.

“Yes, _atone_ , I’m making up for my mistakes-”

“By forcing others into theirs?” He interrupts harshly, “because it’s your fault Lei turned up in the first place.”  

“ _What?_ ”

“That man you’re always with. My son had to come to verify that he was truly lying about who he was, just in case Luin Saile had persuaded someone else to take his jail time in Nevarra.” Goddard explains, leaning closer to Thom and keeping his voice low. “And now, _now_ he intends to join the Grey Wardens. No doubt you’ve influenced him in that.”

“You’re mad.” Thom frowns, shaking his head. Lei had made that decision by himself, and Thom hadn’t been neither here nor there about the choice. But his inaction was just as good as agreeing with the young man, and he knew that’s how Goddard would see it.

“If I lose _anything_ because of this, by the Maker, Thom, you and your lying bloody friend will suffer for it.” Goddard spits through gritted teeth.

“So convince him to stay, give him a reason not to join.” Thom pleads, almost begging on behalf of a man he had only known for a few days.

“You make it sound trivial, as if I should accept him and everything will fall neatly into place.” He huffs. “You forget the pinpoint that I must balance upon. My _Dalish_ lover will never be seen as anything but an affront to all.”

“Piss on what they think.” Thom whispers, his brows furrowing in anger.

“No, Thom, _no_.” Goddard snaps. It’s only a flicker in his mind but for a moment he reminds him of his son. Young and full of fire, a desire to do the right thing damned be what other people think. He only wishes he could still hold to that ideal, but things had changed, and Goddard had grown up and began to dance to the tune made for him. “The Orlesians will think I’m vile for sleeping with an elf, the Dalish will say I was opportunistic, the Free Marchers will see it as an insult to the Teryn’s daughter, and it isn’t as if I need more reason for the Fereldans to mistrust me.”

“He’s your son.”

“It’s not my choice.” Goddard says, swallowing hard. It’s not my choice, he thinks, it’s not my choice.

“Boss?” Bull interrupts, pulling back the door of their tent and peaking inside. “You got a minute?” Goddard takes a deep breath through his nose and nods, throwing his travelling cape over his shoulders and stepping outside; mabari patterned nightwear boldly hidden underneath.

Thom scrubs at his face and muffles his grunt a few minutes after Goddard’s footsteps had vanished. Was he the only man here who had a good relationship with his father? He runs his hands through his hair and sighs, trying to relax into his bedroll. Perhaps Goddard was right, and Thom didn’t actually know what he was meddling in. But he was right to try, that much was true. He turns over with a grunt trying to find a position comfortable enough to sleep in. Maker’s balls, he thinks, he’s messing it all up.

But Goddard had called Lei his son, whether he had intended to or not. That had to be seen as progress of a sort. Confusing as it was to hear the man denounce the boy yet accept him beneath his words, it didn’t make sense to Thom. As far as he could understand, the Inquisitor was playing a game, and he himself wasn’t quite sure which tune he was dancing to.

No One finds a small cave to stay for the night; there’s no sign of any wild animals living there, and it’s too out of the way for a common traveller to find. He eats his rations, wrapping a single mouthful back up in the cloth and burying it beneath the snow. Something would find it eventually. With a stuttering sigh he takes off his pack and rests his head on it, closing his eyes and futilely begging that no dreams come to him.

There’s only a minute before he’s back in that carriage; friends sitting on either side laughing without an ounce of sobriety between them. He stands, pulling on the door latches until they melt in his hands and he is truly trapped. Nobody notices his distress, so he sits, uselessly waiting for the next part to happen. The open doors and the blade in his hand, a fresh corpse staring up at him, Emile pulling him from the violent and writhing crowd. But the carriage tips aggressively, and he is thrown to the side, where his head cracks against the roof. A sticky wetness coats his scalp and his eyes are blinded for a moment. Emile is gone, as is Marc, Babette, and Marguerite. Instead there lies the boy from the alienage without a name, sickly pallid skin, neck snapped from the rope entwinned in No One’s hands.

He yelps but his tongue is still, and yelps without voice again when something heavy hits the false door. Again and again hands crack against the wooden carriage, No One can’t do anything but wait, and count the seconds between each one. It’s hits harder, fuelled by aggression or desire or fear, he doesn’t know he’s too afraid to find out. His paralysis is a blessing, with no noise perhaps the beast will subside in it’s attack. But then he hears a whistle, sharp as it cuts through the fade. No, he weeps, as the whistle breaks the silence twice, thrice, and once more. Please, he begs, please don’t leave me here. But the banging continues, and the rescue he had attempted in the waking world never comes. He is forced to endure in his fear, terrified of what stands on the other side. He cannot decide whether it is the werewolf that had claimed him or the Shade he had killed earlier.

No One wakens quickly, sitting up and clutching at his face. His head throbs and his fingers come away with blood, but the sun has risen and it’s a new day to be conquered.


	33. No one, No One

Lake Calenhad was almost empty save for the few souls who guard the now mage-less Kinloch Hold. King Alistair had once tried to reinstate mages into the tower a few years ago, taking in people from all over Thedas to be tutored there. But the memories had been harder to wash out than the bloodstains, rumours even more so. The Hero of Ferelden hadn’t waited for Ser Greagoir’s request for the Right of Annulment to be accepted, but had slaughtered his way to the top, eventually killing their aid when she turned against him. It was something not long forgotten, and it had bolstered others to request the Right in the coming years. They believed that if one tower as powerful as Kinloch Hold call fall to maleficarum, then many others would undoubtedly fall too. Not only would it bolster the rebellious mages, but it would lead them into a life of blood magic; endangering all those around them.

Many had claimed it to be another chain upon the mages, and called it chantry rhetoric to be wielded as a blade. Though very few said it hadn’t had an impact on the state of the world today. If mages had gotten the leniency they had wanted in Kinloch Hold, they wouldn’t have resorted to blood magic, and other circles may have followed in their stead. Others cry that the templars should have been stricter, pulling out the weeds; root and stem. It sparks debates across Thedas, most notably inside the yearly Fereldan Landsmeet. Whence the instigator would be present alongside his brother; both Teryns with large land claims and large voices. King Alistair had informally announced it as deserted, and kept it under watch of a skeleton crew; hoping that one day he might see it restored and useful once more. Though one day creeped further and further into the future with every passing moment.

One who remained within the tower’s guard was Ser Ancel, a templar whose abuses were widely known and widely covered up within the order. The sadistic second son of an influential family, who was given power in the name of the Maker, and allowed to do as he wished. Ancel had pale skin, golden hair, and blue eyes. He was described as a man of royal features, similar to that of King Cailan, so he wouldn’t be too hard to find. The templar was also rich enough to warrant wearing his family’s coat of arms on top of his uniform, which served as an easy indicator if the man wore his helmet.

No One had been given the information in a separate letter to the list of names he had received months ago, and he had read it with bile in his throat. Every crime Ser Ancel had been accused of written in plain black ink. It was cheaper that way, the Piss Merchant had told him; many of their clients sought revenge or for perpetrators to be punished for their crimes. Using black ink was his way of conveying the message to his Dog. It wasn’t time sensitive like the political targets in red, nor gave any option to save life from body traders if it were written in green. Simple enough, but it was heartless, and there was no way to simplify the things Ancel had done to the mages left in his care.

No One had asked for this, if and when it was possible, to know of the crimes that people were being assassinated for. The Piss Merchant only gave him what was already available for the public to find, so there was little trouble to be had if the letters were found by someone outside of the Family. But the letter had been long, and the Piss Merchant’s scribes had incredibly small scripture. It gave No One a sense of doing something to help the world, knowing that he wasn’t just killing for money. He had been told it was a strange thing for a man of the Family to have, a good conscience and a willingness to do good. But No One had an ability that the Piss Monger had not come across before, and he was willing to adjust to keep his Dog onside.

With a reassuring breath, No One readjusts his grip on the large branch he had fashioned into masquerading as a staff. Adding strips of torn cloth tied with string, carving a few nonsensical glyphs into it, and letting the wood soak up a few drops of lyrium; it almost looked real. Or it looked real enough to be a staff pretending not to be one. He pulls a scarf around his face to hide his moustache and loosens his hair from it’s braid, it falls in waves; haggard enough to tell of a long time travelling. No One stretches out his back and then lowers his gait, moving with an unsteady limp and keeping his head low.

A templar stands vigil by the docks, warming their hands under their arms to fight away the chill. The Tevinter winds had passed quickly enough; chased off by a rush of snowfall which reminded everyone they were still in the harsh throes of winter. The grand bridge which connected Kinloch Hold to the surrounding land had been repaired and restored to a high enough standard, it made the rowboat seem useless to a certain degree. No One thought it would serve better as an escape from the tower, perhaps it was out of habit that it was docked away from Kinloch hold.

The Spoiled Princess was mostly empty, No One counts the sets of boots sitting around a corner table as he keeps his head down. His scarf and hair can only hide so much, and he was here to assassinate someone. No matter his methods a familiar face around so many deaths was suspicious enough to warrant investigating, it was better all around if people didn’t see him. Best they only think of him as a wandering apostate, and that description tailored to many nowadays.

“You’ve any beds going spare?” No One asks as he approaches the bar, he sits and keeps his staff standing between his legs, resting against his shoulder. It should be enough to peak the Templar’s curiosity at least. He plays up a western-Fereldan accent, quickening his words and rising his pitch. Coming from closer to Chasind and Avvar lands there’s a higher gathering of mages than anywhere else in Ferelden, which No One hopes lends to his false apostasy.

“There’s plenty up in the tower.” The innkeeper says, wiping down a mug to keep his hands busy. He’s a large set man with a heavy jaw weighed with fat, his hair is dark and tucked behind his ears with the kind of shine that comes without washing. Kelton, his name was. Apparently, he had owned the inn for a more than a decade, enduring the blight and the slaughter of the mages right here. A brave man to have held his position for so long.

“Nobody’ll go up there.” No One snorts, wringing his false staff and shifting in his seat. Even the Templars were afraid of the place; quaffing lyrium as they were it was bound to have some effect on their dreams.

“So, you’ll have some privacy, we’ve no rooms.” Kelton says and places the mug under the bar with the others. Despite how deserted the area was, the few rooms he had were taken already. Some by the Templars who were mildly too scared to sleep in the tower, especially now the breach had made a hole in the sky; as if the veil wasn’t already too thin from certain actions during the Blight. The others were all taken by travellers, and a room was kept spare for the fisherman who spent his mornings out on the lake.

“Ale then?” No One asks.

“Coin upfront.” He grabs the mug he had just cleaned and sticks it under the barrel tap, hovering his thumb over it, waiting for his customer’s purse to make an appearance.

“Stingy bastard, aren’t you?” He laughs, wiggling his fingers as if to grab the empty mug.

“Get out.” He grunts, taking his hand off of the tap. He wasn’t about to serve anyone for free, the Templars already drank at a discount, and they scared off a lot of custom with their fancy armour and thinly veiled threats. Not that he was about to complain, reduced business was better than none, and he had dealt with them for a fair few years at the very least.

“A drink first.” He drums his hands on the bar top, a closed-lip grin spreading across his face.

“Fuck off, or I’ll have those Templars bloody you.” Kelton snaps, nodding to the group in the corner. No One glances behind himself; a group of four and none of them look any bit relaxed. He bites his tongue and turns back to Kelton, slipping from his stool and attempting to hide his staff from the Templar’s gaze.

“Farewell” No One nervously trails off the word before he nods his goodbye. Making sure to hurry from the tavern and let the door slam lightly on the hinges. With any luck Ser Ancel will be wetting himself at the thought of capturing an apostate, and if not, at least No One knows where his target is. For now, the sun is setting, and he has to strip and prepare to change with the filling of the moon.

He sprints as fast as he can, heavy on his feet to leave a lasting impression in the snow for Ser Ancel to follow. Half an hour passes before he’s red faced and gasping air into his lungs, he really wasn’t as fit as he used to be. He had only managed to sprint for barely a few minutes before slowing into a wheezing run. Keeping up with endurance training require endurance itself, and No One hadn’t been strict with himself over the years. Behind him are snapped twigs and broken branches, clear patches of snow and enough of a mess from when he had purposefully fallen over. If that isn’t enough of an indication of a fleeing apostate, then Ancel isn’t a very good templar. Not that he was, No One reminded himself, he was a cruel and malicious templar. But cruel templars have some tracking sense, don’t they?

No One strips quickly as the sky begins to fade, and buries his clothes near the tree he had pissed on earlier. He waits for the pain that splits his joints and seers his muscles, believing that it was better to endure the transformation awake than to be found sleeping. It causes him to cry out more than once, with a taste of sickness in his throat and a tinge of fever in his bones.

He had tried to revert his mind back to his chevalier training; the ability to numb the pain until it was ready to be treated. But he believes that even a veteran could not withstand the torture of a body willingly breaking itself and remoulding to another shape. With a twist to his spine No One shrieks, and he thinks of Thom to comfort him. A man made from soft edges and kind hands, warmth across his cheeks and a scratch to his lips. Sweet kisses and half made sentences of adoration, heavy above him with the scent of sweetened soldier’s soap. We are, he thinks, we are, we are.

Thom finds himself staring down into a mug of ale in The Flying Arms, a large tavern known for housing soldiers in times of war. It boasts a large fire pit in the centre of the room, several meats sit atop it on iron racks, cooking slowly and filling the air with the most delectable of scents. It’s mostly full of traders moving along Gherlen’s pass with their wares, and enjoying a night of fulfilment before they spend the next few nights sleeping beside the road. There’s a replica tavern on the eastern side of the Frostbacks, and the innkeeper has plans to build two along Sulcher’s path as well. It’s a sound business, Thom thinks, but he’s not that bothered about it as others might be.

Everyone sits together around the firepit, it’s possible to get privacy and engage in sequestered card games but the room is made for a community of people. Most of whom are all itching to sit beside the Herald, for reasons Thom has heard a thousand times over already. Some had even asked him about Goddard, and he had done his best to inflate the man’s ego despite not wanting to.

He couldn’t complain; Dorian and Bull were getting far more attention than himself, and it gave him privacy to think of No One. Thom had decided to write to him, or rather to Caldwell, as soon as he got settled in Sahrnia. He had no idea if the man would be back from Lake Calenhad yet or not, but his fingers were itching with desire to write him. Lei was also on his mind, though for different reasons. The young man would have stayed in Skyhold, if only to stay near the Warden Commander, officially he hadn’t yet become a grey warden and leaving wouldn’t help his chances.

Thom sniffs and takes a swig of ale, and remembers he still has some leads to chase up on his men. He hadn’t exactly been keeping on top of it; too caught up in No One to look into things, but he would eventually. If he could get the man out of his head for more than a few moments. Every blonde who had passed him over the past few days had caught his eye, just to check if it was No One even if he knew that it wouldn’t be. Still it would be a thrilling thing; a night in a tavern with No One. A tavern with a room and a sign to persuade people not to disturb them. Maker, he thinks, wondering if all this pining was odd. He should have kissed him before he left for Lake Calenhad.

Bull places another tankard in front of him, sitting down with a grin on his face. He rests a hand on his knee to keep him steady and nods at the drink.

“A lot of blondes in here.” He says, leaning closer and placing a heavy elbow on the table, inciting Thom to reply. For a moment he wonders if he has been too obvious, if he had been staring lecherously at people as they passed him. But it’s probably just Bull, he thinks, the man can see everything even with just one eye and partially pissed.

“Can’t say I’ve noticed.” Thom shrugs. Though he doesn’t even know why he bothers to lie to Bull anymore; after the revelation of his true identity, the Qunari had figured out a lot of his tells. Maybe even all of them he thinks worryingly.

“ _Really_ , you’ve clocked almost every single one who walked in here,” Bull drops his voice carefully, “except the one at the bar, red hood. Pretty fancy bow if you ask me.” He slaps his hand on Thom’s shoulder and quickly drains the tankard he had brought, and the remainder of Thom’s drink. “I’ve got a ‘Vint waiting for me, no offense, big guy, but I’m glad to be away from you for the night.” He laughs. Thom huffs out his laughter when he can’t spy Dorian in the room; at least someone was having fun.

Ever since he and Goddard had argued to the point that strangers were giving them odd looks in the morning, Dorian had taken his place in the shared tent. Heights had been a dominating factor in the argument, along with soap of course, this was Dorian after all. Bull and Goddard were both taller than he and Dorian, and Thom was the shortest of all four. The switch had made him feel slightly guilty at separating the couple, if it was proper to call them that, the mage had made some remarks that Bull had instantly countered with a more vulgar tongue over the past few days. Evident as it was that Bull had an alternate agenda, it still made Thom laugh until he was wheezing, but it hadn’t been fair to disrupt the group. It was unprofessional and possibly dangerous. He admits to himself that it would be simple to concede to Goddard, and apologise for the words he had spoken before. Though that wouldn’t do anything to help Lei, and he wasn’t going to revert to the same old selfish Thom Rainier that he used to be.

 With a grunt Thom stands, weary of the ale that seems to be pooling in his legs, and makes his way to the bar. Red Hood has her own drink in hand, and whatever Bull’s intentions were he’s not really in the mood for a one-night romance. It sprouts guilt in his belly just thinking about it. She did have a nice bow though, oddly familiar, except for where some of the bark had been chipped away badly. Thom frowns through his thoughts trying to remember when he had seen the weapon before, and then it hits him like a much too familiar arrow to his gut.

“Sera?” He whispers, marvelled when the girl turns around with a vanishing frown on her face. “ _Sera_.” He adds; overjoyed.

With the risen moon, No One shakes off his pain, finding everything just that slightest bit different now. Seeing the surrounding area from the eyes of a beast two foot taller than he was, everything is more potent, more vivid, simply _more_. If he could bottle and sell what he feels, minus the pain he has endured, it would make him fortunes. Yet he would wish this curse on nobody. With a second shake, to rid snow from his fur he wanders off, waiting for the foreign smell of Ser Ancel to fill the air. We are, he thinks once more, wondering if that still applies as he becomes a beast. Though if he hadn’t become a beast all those years ago would he still have met Thom Rainier, or would he be some elevated chevalier with an ego as tall as it was wide? He scuffs at the snow with a paw, still an odd sight, and lurks his way through the trees.

So far away from The Spoiled Princess it’s hard to get any track distinguishable as the man he was looking for, but the scent of lyrium and burning Fade grew as he neared Kinloch Hold. All mages had a certain tinge of fire to them, an otherworldly scorch in their aura. Templars had something similar, as if they drank from the Fade without permission, but it was false and deceiving, and it’s taste was sickening.

Other animals still roamed the area, rare as it was that No One would catch a scent, some still lingered. None were so recent to imply they still rested in the area, aside from a few nugs which were far too tempting, but he diligently ignored them to press on with his mission. He couldn’t waste any time before meeting the Green-Eyed Boy; he’d be damned if they were impatient. No One realises he should have probably checked to see if the old rotting hut was still there, it would be ill luck if the thing had finally fallen down.

He wonders more about the Dalish with the missing fingers. It’s a thought that had pre-occupied him for the past week, there can’t be that many elves without a full set. Why had the fingerless Dalish said farewell to him anyway? To say goodbye implied that they had known each other, but No One cannot think of anybody like that, and there was little doubt in his mind that he had been anything but a beast at that time. Had the elf helped him in some way, had the elf cured him? There’s nothing solid for him to go on, the Dalish could have simply healed the wounds across his nose for all he can remember.

It’s an hour before No One catches wind of his target; heavy boots crunching in the snow, the faint whiff of abused lyrium in the air. There’s no chatter, no foreign smells bar what No One had expected; Ser Ancel must be alone. A mistake on his behalf, no doubt his ego had weighed more on the decision than his safety. It boded well for No One; one target was an easy take down, and it meant there were others he didn’t have to kill if they got in the way. He was masquerading as a beast after all, he would have to act the part of mindless slaughter, so nobody caught on to his ruse.

He follows him closely enough to keep him in his line of sight, watching as he tracks No One’s footprints, gleeful in his step with whatever fantasies run rampant in his mind. Ser Ancel had been known to capture apostates, most of them having had put up a lot of resistance according to him. Though there were many cases, most of them undocumented, when the mage had resisted too much, and they were eventually cut down. No One knew that Ancel just killed them because he could. Calling someone an abomination to execute them was something else, even when unproven the Templar would do so. Of course, it was all word of mouth in No One’s mind, but the accusations were too perfect to be fake. He couldn’t risk letting someone like Ser Ancel go free just because he might be worried about killing an innocent Templar. The order was just about as innocent as the chevaliers, the only difference was their choice of victim.

No One halts, midway into a step, and flattens himself as best as he can. Ser Ancel knows he isn’t alone, the man draws his sword silently, waiting for something to make a move. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t call out like most would when they fear being watched. For a moment No One wonders if he has been caught. But he has been in this position before; it is a battle of will and endurance, to see who could hold their nerve the longest. No One has the practice, the years of holding his secrets underneath his tongue, waiting for the precise moment to unravel his opponent.

Time passes, only mere minutes, but it makes the templar feel more secure in his surroundings when nothing happens. If No One had been seen, then Ser Ancel would have either made to attack him, or would circle back to The Spoiled Princess to gather more men. A lone wolf was easy to take down, a group less so, and there were few who had experiences fighting werewolves at any rate. If he wanders too close to the inn then No One will cut him off, and force his hand into a fight.

He bides his time as he follows the templar, making sure he doesn’t step too close nor stray too far away. Ancel doesn’t draw his sword at any point, but his hand remains on the hilt as he walks; no longer confident in his swaggering step. It’s only when he begins to smell the fineness of the veil around the circle tower that he realises he was right in his predictions. Ser Ancel may have spotted him or not, he couldn’t tell which, but he knew the man was returning to Kinloch Hold. He stalks closer, ensuring that he makes enough noise to gain the templar’s attention. Ancel spins quickly, sword unsheathed and ready to strike, his shield raised high in front of himself. No One growls lowly, sneering through scarred lips, and flashing his naked teeth.

“Stupid animal.” Ancel grunts to himself, wishing he had fire or something to scare the thing off. As big as it was, even when low to the ground, it clearly had some strength. Scars were worn only by victors and survivors, and this beast had many. The templar stands his ground as the wolf begins to circle him, his moonlit eyes glowing without an ounce of fear behind them. He hadn’t come here to hunt a wolf, he had come to arrest that apostate, or perhaps drive a sword through his gut after he begged him to.

They stand at an impasse; No One crouched low, waiting for the templar to move, and Ancel standing with a sword in hand waiting to strike. No One moves slowly, raising onto his hind legs and towering above the man. He bears his teeth again and lets his breath form a mist across his mouth; he wants to terrify the man who has spent years terrifying mages. There is no cruelty in punishing those who aim to do harm to others.

“You think that scares me? I’ve fought Prides taller than you.” Ser Ancel spits, “Horrors, Shades, Abominations. You’re just a fucking mutt.” He snorts, feeling his ego swelling. This was no wolf, he thinks, this was nothing compared to the horrors he had seen within the circle. “A dog, nothing but a rug, a pelt, you’re nothing, mutt, no one.” He continues, scoffing at the animal.

“I am not no one.” He growls, inhumane and forced from a foreign tongue. He cannot let his own words cause him to falter, instead he drives the anger in his gut towards his hatred of Ser Ancel. This templar would die, and he would die painfully and afraid. No One’s hand would not be swift, and he will watch as his victim perishes in agony.

“You’re a mage, you’re just a fucking mage.” He laughs in disbelief. Ancel calls forth the lyrium inside of him proudly, pooling it in his hands to cast an unfamiliar Silence upon the beast in front of him. Simple templar training; disable, dispel, detain or destroy. This beast would fall, and he would make a grand trophy of it’s head; hopefully it would remain as a wolf in death and he could look upon his victory with glee.

When No One advances, unhindered by the binding magic, Ancel steps back in fear; his fantasy having run away with him. He was now acutely aware of how little it had done to his opposition. Usually it would stun a mage, locking their mana away and leaving them drained and powerless. This beast was something else, something powerful. No, he thinks, this beast must be maleficar, a blood mage. In a panicked flurry he pulls lyrium forth again, desperate that no blood is spilled to fuel his opponent, and casts a whirlwind Cleanse around him hoping to distil the fear that grapples his mind.

No One feels his body and mind begin to numb as the magic washes over him. The ashen smell of the Fade falls away, the scent of lyrium and leaves wet with snow, the feel of weighty claws and the chill on his bare skin. Everything vanishes. He cannot feel the ground beneath his feet, or the breeze in his fur, he cannot see the stars at night, nor the glow that emanates from the templar. There is no taste in his mouth and nature does not sing in his ears. Blindness overcomes him, his thoughts disappear, silence overwhelms him. No One feels himself becoming nothing, fading into an empty void, and he is powerless to stop it.

Meeting Sera again had been a blessing unforetold in Thom’s eyes. To know that she was not only safe, but that she was happy and doing well. It lit up his heart in ways he couldn’t describe, and he had scrubbed at his face more than once to hide the wetness in his eyes. Damn Bull, he thinks, he could have just said something.

Sera had kept the bow that the Inquisition had crafted for her, because it was a high standard bow, and she wasn’t letting the posh-nobs take it back. Though she had scratched out the Inquisition’s heraldry, and added her own modifications to it. But it didn’t matter in the end, it was just a bow, it shot arrows like any other bow could, even if this particular bow enchanted them with fire. It was a brilliant thing, a good thing, it was _Sera’s_ thing.

She had laughed high and mighty with a mouth full of shining teeth, grinning at his jokes and choking on her ale. Passing through, she had said, still running jobs for the Red Jennies and making nobles look like tits. She asks him to join up again, it must be better than defending that ponce of Inquisitor at any rate. Sera even does her part to rid the world of demons, even though arrows in the sky didn’t do anything to the breach. When she had asked Thom what he had been doing in the past few months, he had chewed into his lip and thought of No One. He blamed the ale for his face heating up and slowed on his drinks.

“No,” Sera laughs, “you and Lady Josie?” She punches him in the arm a bit too hard and waggles her tongue and her brows. She hadn’t been gone that long, had she? She almost regrets how much she had missed in her time exiled.

“No, no, it’s,” Thom snorts trying to get certain images from his head, “what makes you think there’s even anything going on like that anyway? We’re in a war.” He puffs out his chest and scrunches his nose, trying to look like a hardened warrior, insulted by such an accusation. It wouldn’t hurt to throw her onto another topic, she’s usually one for mixing things up like that.

“And your face is as bright as, as, _something_.” She says with a frown; unable to thing of the right word that didn’t end with an arse.

“It’s not Josephine,” Thom says, boldly thinking over his next words. Sera wouldn’t judge him for it, not for liking a man, but No One wasn’t just a man. He could lie, he thinks, there wouldn’t be any harm in it. But Sera’s good at figuring out lies, and he had enough of being false in his words. “It’s No One.”

“No one?”

“No _One_.” He punctuates.

“She’s called No One?” She asks. Thom thinks she looks more confused than he has ever seen her, and he can’t blame her for it. No One had once been an unusual name to him as well, now it slipped from his tongue like peach whiskey and frosted candies.

“No,” He bites his tongue for a brief interlude, “ _he’s_ called No One.”

“Ew.” She laughs, screwing up her face and leaning away playfully. “I knew you talked about jousting too much.”

“Sera.” He scolds, hiding his scorn behind a grin.

“What’s he like then? Not, what’s _he_ like, but _what’s he like_?”

“He’s…” Thom starts, trying to think of an apt way to describe him. There’s a thousand things that Sera wouldn’t approve of, and a thousand that Thom wouldn’t have approved of either before he got to know the man. No One was once a primped noble, an oppressive chevalier, a man who was held aloft by faulted royals. Once he was golden, shining bright and surrounded by a vast sea of coin. Yet, he stood in rags and chains when Thom had first met him. He must have gone months without bathing, no coin to his name, he had even admitted he would sneak into taverns just to take the dregs. No One had suffered, and he continued to suffer, and it had only been Thom that had given him hope. That man, No One, simply was, in Thom’s eyes.

“Ew,” She sniggers again when his words fail him, his eyes having glazed over with memories, “you’ve gone all soft, not like that, I don’t want to think about it like that.”

“I’m shocked you’re even thinking about it at all.” Thom says, a hand to his chest in mocking offense.

“I’m not, eugh, I’m done, this conversation is over, _eugh_.” She laughs pushing into Thom and spilling his newly ordered drink. Maker it was good to see her again, he thinks as he shakes the ale from his gloves, Maker how he had missed her.

They continue drinking in Thom’s rented room, Sera already having got her coin back on hers because his was big enough for three. It’s incredible to see her again, she tells him half a dozen stories and doesn’t finish a single one; making sure to leave him at the best part every time. She shows him a new scar which looks vulgar if she squishes her belly a certain way, and takes the time to make up several jokes about Thom’s newfound love of bananas. He doesn’t bother telling her it wasn’t something new, rather that it was just mostly unexplored. Still, she asks more about No One, half convinced he isn’t real, and snorts with laughter when she tries moaning the name out. They stay up late enough that the candle cupboard is now empty, and they both fall asleep with faces flushed with joy.

In the morning, Goddard wakens them both, only expecting Thom to be in there he falters in his first words. Sera’s not a morning person, and she’s not the biggest fan of the Inquisitor in Thedas, so she sticks up a few choice fingers and rolls herself back into her blankets. A silence settles upon them, Goddard lingering in the doorway until he finds the courage to speak, nerves upon his tongue. His words are clear and bold, though they shake and force themselves from his throat.

Sera is pardoned, and her exile from the Inquisition is lifted. If she wishes to return to Skyhold she can, though her room has been given to someone else and so she wouldn’t be able to move in there. He does warn her that he wouldn’t tolerate any pranks upon high standing members of the Inquisition, a soaking ambassador and a paranoid commander doesn’t benefit anyone. The order to execute her is also lifted, and with grace, Goddard apologises for his actions and his earlier words. Though admits he won’t be seeking, nor accepting, anything from the Red Jennies ever again.

It’s the best he can do, and it’s above anything that Thom had expected him to do. Sera isn’t bothered either way, she blows a raspberry and tells him where to stick it and how often, fake snoring loudly until the Herald leaves. The apologies stick in Thom’s head as he cleans himself and dresses to continue their travels. Goddard’s words running through his mind over and over to the steady thrum of his hangover. Through the throb in his head Thom had seen Goddard’s shock at finding Sera in his room, so it couldn’t have been planned. But pardoning someone without any thought behind it, it didn’t seem like Goddard, yet the man had done it and Thom couldn’t deny that. Thom could only think that Goddard _had_ been thinking about it, he wasn’t the kind of man to rush into things unless it was to the aid of another.

Sera had once played a great many pranks on him and his advisors during their time together. He didn’t seem to be all that angry about them at first; Sera was right, people started to see him as more human and less deity. Though when an intended prank had gone wrong, and had left his wife humiliated instead, things had changed, and they had done so rapidly. Yetta had been more forgiving than her husband, though she hadn’t tried to persuade him to keep the young girl in employment at any rate.

Goddard was paranoid for the rest of the morning until they were well away from The Flying Arms and from Sera. He had done a good thing, he told himself. The things that had happened before, Sera might be worthy of some blame, but it was the Red Jennies who had orchestrated the whole thing. Exiling her with a death sentence upon her head was a bit too dramatic for pranking his wife, and it sang too closely of something that his father would do.

Thinking about Aaric was nary a good thing for Goddard to do, it makes him think of Florent, and it bring age old aches to his chest. More so now he fears that his old lover had died on his behalf, if he had come back for him, and Goddard had been fool enough not to wait. It burns his gut and he swallows thickly. He would have to make reparations on Aaric’s behalf to the Baroulxs, and as it stands, he would have to make reparations to Emperor Gaspard as he soon weds into the family. Which would be remarkably odd considering that Gaspard had also offered to wed one of his children to Goddard’s granddaughter Gylda. Though he had politely told Gaspard that Gylda was almost twenty at the time, and unlikely to wait. Great-grandchildren, he had exclaimed, inebriated and eager to unite their houses.

Goddard rides ahead, keeping them at a steady gallop to get to Sahrnia quicker. It doesn’t leave any room for conversation, and the motion of riding horseback gives Thom a more than eventful gut. His thoughts are clouded with the Herald’s apology, and it leaves him unable to think of anything else no matter how he tries. His hangover is the heaviest thing in his mind, drinking late into the morning with Sera had been an awful decision. Fun as it was, the benefits had faded quickly and he was left with the lingering sickness from the ale. At least he was warm in his newly tailored clothes.

It's a hard ride, and the group only stop to water the horses and relieve themselves. It shaves a day off of their travel, and a few saddle sores is worth the time they’ve saved. Dorian has to throw up a few wisps of magelight to navigate their path, Bull taking point to keep Goddard’s nerves a little less frayed. He’s more than thrilled when a scout on horseback rides to them with lantern in hand, leading them to the small encampment on the outskirts of Sahrnia. The rider offers her greetings and hides her surprise as they’ve arrived earlier than expected, though she explains she’s glad for it; people hadn’t disappeared in a fortnight and she knows there will be some taken soon.

Scout Harding meets them; still in uniform even at this late hour, and explains the troubles they’ve had recently. She had done her best to map the area, though hadn’t gone far due to the need to protect those who endured the kidnappings. They were told of a chevalier, by the name of Michel de Chevin, on the other side of the village who had been defending the villagers as best as he could. A one-man army couldn’t do much to sway the tide, but he had made progress with the Inquisition scouts beside him.

The name captures Thom’s attention. Michel de Chevin had been something that many had spoken about during the peace talks in Orlais, even though Thom remained secluded, he still heard whispers about the man. Once a proud champion to Empress Celene, now disgraced, through a dozen different ways depending on who told the story. One thing that was clear, was that he used to be a chevalier, and remains one of the few in history who has kept his head after his treachery. Excluding No One, because Thom hasn’t heard of any other chevalier who had turned away from the order, and he wouldn’t have known unless the man hadn’t told him personally.

It’s far too dark to venture out now, and they are all fatigued after such a hard ride, their horses more so. Dorian dispels the magelight and gladly steps into one of the quickly erected tents, built upon the Herald’s arrival. Thom will have to wait for his own to be built, and he scrubs at his eyes to keep himself awake.

“Thom,” Goddard calls, the snow crunching under his boots as he leaves Scout Harding’s side, “I thought we might speak, I need to know we can trust that we have each other’s backs.”

“You’ve nothing to fear from me.” Thom grunts, slightly perturbed by his words. Goddard can’t truly believe that Thom would turn against him or do anything to cause him injury. Whatever their arguments he knows the importance of the Herald, and he knows without him Thedas is lost.

“I know, I wanted to speak to you about certain matters.” He says, clearing his throat and guiding Thom to a more secluded area of the camp. “I cannot change the world, but I may rectify my own missteps.” He adds quietly, brushing snow from a fallen boulder to place his lantern. Thom follows in almost silence, wondering what this could be about. He and Goddard had argued over much in the past week or so, and with Sera’s pardoning this morning, it all seemed so strange. Thom feels as if Goddard means to tell him of bad news, and it sets alight a flame of worry in his gut.

“I apologise, firstly, for how I have treated you.” Goddard admits, breaking the silence between the pair. He manages to stifle his yawn behind the back of his hand before he continues. “I am angered by how we’ve spoken to each other, but I am dealing with certain things that you don’t know about.” There’s dread on his face, seeping into the lines and wrinkles which mar his skin and tell of decades in his age. The lantern does nothing but enhance the crevasses along his face, and burns into the curving scar which glances the Herald’s right cheek.

“So tell me.” Thom asks, gently, more comforting than condemning. Whether it be by sword or wit, he is bound by his oath to serve the Inquisitor. Perhaps he had been right before, maybe Thom didn’t know much about what had been happening, and he had been meddling in things he didn’t yet understand.

“I once told you about the first man I loved, I fear he is dead, I fear he died some fifty years ago.” Goddard has to swallow thickly around his words, they choke him as they spill from his lips. So eagerly they tumble from his lungs, like Thom had been the one to open the dam, to let everything he held inside flood out. “I fear that every moment, every decision I have ever made, has been built upon the naivety of a stupid young man and the vile tactless lies of his father.” He spits his last words, his dread turning into something putrid that had been festering beneath his skin for years.

“Inquisitor?” He whispers.

“I hate him. With every second that passes I hate him more and more.” He bites the words with fury. The creases which line his skin tilted and sharper now in the low light, his features caught in a twisting sneer. Thom had once thought the Inquisitor had the look of a disapproving father, but now, he looks every bit the void-laced warmonger he has been made out to be. “I am seventy-three years old, and I am bound by my father’s trespasses. He continues to poison me even after he has passed, and I fear this will seep into my own children.”

“You’re not your father, you’re your own man, a good man.” Thom says with confidence, a hand laid gently on Goddard’s arm to pull him from his memories.

“I pray that you are right, Thom, Maker help me if not.” He clears his throat and looks away from the candle hidden behind it’s lantern bars. His own hand momentarily lays upon Thom’s own, a way of thanking him for a physical comfort, and reminding him that he is still only human.

“ _A vile tactless man_ wouldn’t question himself over this, _a vile tactless_ man wouldn’t care.”

“I am born of a vile tactless man, and my children are born of me.” Goddard whispers. His anger quelled, and dampened into sorrow. “This includes Lei, should the opportunity arise I would welcome him with open arms, and pray he is nothing like his grandfather.”

“You’re a good man, Goddard, people worship you because they love you.” Thom comforts, staring into the darker eyes of the Inquisitor. There were no lies in his words, no falsehoods. Goddard inspired wherever he went, leaving a trail of blessed footprints in the ground beneath him. Thom hadn’t ever been one so strict in his Andrastianism, but there had been moments whence Goddard had faced the impossible, and had survived unscathed. It made him believe more than he ever had before, though he wasn’t one to kiss the man’s feet and offer him prayers. “It’s a little unnecessary and a little pompous, but they don’t revere you out of fear.” He adds with a tipple of laughter in his voice.

“He once called me formidable in every aspect of being. Does that not invoke fear?” Goddard asks.

“No.” He says without hesitation. Goddard huffs out his laughter, watching his breath rise and disperse with the wind.

“Sleep well, Thom, we rise with the sun.” He bows slightly, taking the lantern and wandering back to the camp.

“The same to you, Herald.” Thom calls, his gloved fingers resting in the warmth that the candle had left. He didn’t know what he had done to warrant knowing the secrets of the Inquisitor, nor what he had done to be the one to comfort him. Whether it was a good thing or not eluded him, though he hoped that the Inquisitor could count him amongst his friends, and that one day he would see Lei becoming his son. No matter his faults, Thom didn’t believe the Herald could ever be so cruel as the man he describes as his own father. The lingering heat fades, and there is little reason for Thom to stay out in the snow.


	34. May We Never Speak Again

Sahrnia was much worse than what Thom had anticipated, and he felt poorer knowing that they should have been here a week ago at the very least. There was more to it than he had originally been told, missing villagers and rampant red lyrium didn’t convey what he was seeing now. Sahrnia was practically deserted, few remained in the decrepit houses, and those who did were riddled with the fear of the Red Templars in the hills. They were relieved that the Inquisition had sent aid, and felt more at ease now that they knew the Herald of Andraste had arrived personally to save them. But it did nothing to quell their sorrow for missing family and friends. There was hope within the Inquisition that they may find some of the missing villagers and reunite them with their families, they wanted to rescue as many as they could from the quarry, but the threat of those being infected with red lyrium was great.

Thom had woken up first out of the four of them, breaking himself out of a confusing dream that made him feel anxious and uneased. There hadn’t been anything dangerous in the Fade whilst he had slept, he had just sat beside a wooden table, the only chair opposite was empty, and between them sat a cup of whiskey. It was full to the brim, and Thom hadn’t dared to touch it lest it spill. He had felt odd last night, slightly nervous for a reason that eluded him. But he had slept through it, and emerged somewhat less perturbed by it all. Still, it played on his mind as he dressed for the winter snows of Sahrnia.

The Fade could still readily affect the dreams of those without magic, it could give them meanings that even the dreamer wouldn’t understand. Thom could usually piece together some sort of explanation, even if it didn’t fit perfectly it still gave him some kind of comfort. Yet this one had felt unusual, and the only thing he could think of was that he missed No One; thus, the empty chair. But he had dreamt of the man before, even as he missed him, a figure to match No One had always remained. Last night he had just felt alone. He has no choice but to try and shrug the whole experience off, No One is safe, he has to be.

Waking early had given Thom the opportunity to write his first letter to No One. There was a slight giddiness in his gut as he set up the Inquisition’s writing kit, and it dispelled whatever illness had struck him in the Fade. His letter would be carried by an Inquisition crow, trained to fly back to Skyhold, so he knew it had to be short to fit alongside the message to say they had arrived in Sahrnia. It’s a simple enough message that he rehearses in his head before he begins to write it. Remembering comments about his soldier’s scripture that No One had made before they had parted ways, he tries to adjust his writing so it looks neater, but that’s easier said than done. He asks that he wait for him to return, and despite the time he has had to think about No One’s parting words; things haven’t changed.

Thom chews the inside of his cheek, knowing that things _had_ changed, though not necessarily for the worst. Knowing what No One had been through, not only in his recent years but as a child; he had an admiration for the man after surviving so much. He had made so many sacrifices, and not all of them were solely for the benefit of those close to him. But his daughter, Thom could not imagine what it felt like to abstain from your own child. He bites his cheek a little harder; understanding now that the Inquisitor lay in the throes of what No One had endured for most of his life. Thom could not imagine the Herald in rags, drowning in alcohol, and so desperate to self-inflict such harmful punishment.

The letter is passed to the crowkeeper who’s happy now he’s able to send the bird on her way. Thom laughs out his apology, promising that he’ll use the messenger scout for his future letters. He knows he won’t get many from No One, at best he’ll receive a letter every fortnight, but it’s better than nothing. More than anything he feels as if he misses the blonde far too much, and is eager to be back with him. Clearing Sahrnia was a hefty obstacle, and the Inquisitor would make sure it was done properly before they left. Thom wouldn’t have it any other way.

First meal isn’t anything special. The scouts in Sahrnia were meant to have food delivered to them but it had been rationed and spread around the village, given to those who were already starving. Thom didn’t complain, even after they had ridden through their meal time yesterday, he’d willingly give up his food for those here. Their stocks were dire, and with the frozen river and the presence of the Red Templars it was harder than ever to get anyone to travel to the village with supplies. There’s little doubt in Thom’s mind that once the Red Templars and the three dragons are gone the Inquisition will provide a safe supply line. Though how hard that task will be is unknown to them all right now; Bull seems eager enough to get on with it. The Qunari had happily exclaimed that he was glad it wasn’t demons; though he was rather put out when one of the Inquisition scouts had pointed out that Sahrnia had a rift close to the village, and a few more, farther in.

The closest rift would be the first thing to take care of, as unpleasant as fighting on ice sounds, it has to be done. How ever it works, the demons beyond the rift seem to know that the Anchor draws near, and they spill from it in waves. Goddard had managed to close this thing before a third group of demons escaped from it, but Prides and Despairs had already succeeded in making themselves known. Both he and Thom end up having to carve mounds of ice from their shields at the end of the battle, Despair demons had a nasty habit of weighing armour and weaponry with ice so that it was impossible to use any longer. But Dorian had always had a flare for fire magic, and it was always a good thing to see them burning even if the smell was foul.       

Goddard makes the decision to take them through to the next rift, and then to circle around to flank the small gathering group of Red Templars. It’s a sound strategy, and it works well given that they had only suffered minor injuries. Though all four men can admit it is exhausting to some extent, returning to the village for a meal and a rest is the wisest course of action. It also gives Goddard the opportunity to speak to Michel de Chevin, and although Thom wishes to speak with him about certain things himself, he leaves them in their privacy.

The meal they have is once again small, barely enough to get rid of the feeling of emptiness growing inside. But it’s something that any soldier is known to be familiar with. Feeding armies, even within the lavish lifestyle of Orlais, was a difficult job to do. As a captain, Thom had received nicer portions than many, and he hadn’t spread his food thin back then. He made sure to do so now.

The Herald returns from Michel’s side after an hour, taking his meal cold, and heading straight for the Inquisition crows. There’s little doubt in Thom’s mind that somehow things had gotten worse since they had arrived; Goddard wouldn’t send a second crow only hours after he first unless it was dire. Perhaps he was ordering traders to visit Sahrnia with supplies, Thom hopes, and not commandeering more troops because they were so outmatched. Thom sniffs and heads over to Michel, if they were in perilous danger then he’d rather ask his questions before that arrived.

“Michel de Chevin?” Thom asks, approaching loudly from behind the Orlesian. Just as Scout Harding had said, he was on the main valley path, flanked by two Inquisition soldiers. They’re hardly intimidating, but all three had merits in their fighting without a doubt. They could hold off an attack well enough that the Red Templars might flee. Or at least one of them could alert the village if something larger was shambling their way.

“Yes? And you are?” Michel says, bowing his head slightly, though he returns to watching the hills quickly enough. Thom follows the man’s actions; more eyes watching the hills around them the better. Especially in the fading light of the evening sun. The only benefit of fighting the Red Templars in the dark was that the lyrium which erupted from their skin glowed a sickly red, it made them easy to spot, but you had to worry about those not so far gone whose skin had only blackened with taint.

“Thom Rainier.” He admits, knowing that Michel would know just as much about him as he does Michel. The ex-chevalier doesn’t seem too put off by Thom’s appearance, most Orlesians still regarded him as if he was tainted by something worse than the blight; even those who proudly supported the new Emperor. They all knew Thom had taken the job for coin, but most believed he had known who was inside the carriage. As if he could murder children so coldly. “I wanted to ask you something, if you don’t mind.”

“Of course.”

“You used to be a chevalier.” He says, realising it’s not much of a question, and from his expression, Michel hadn’t expected it. There’s sorrow in his features more than shame, and Thom wonders how close he and Celene had truly been. There had been rumours about them as there were rumours about Celene and many others, born from her lack of marriage as she approached her forties, and as the probability of an heir dwindled away.

“Ah, that I did. It matters little, I’m not here to be a chevalier.” He shakes his head, but offers Thom a smile as forgiveness. His words had not harmed him. Although he grieved for the late empress, less so for her lover Briala, times were moving forward and he had a demon to hunt. Knowing that the Inquisitor knew about Imshael was a relief of sorts, he knew the man wouldn’t let a demon run rife through the village, especially with how they had suffered with the repeated attacks from the Red Templars.

“But you _used_ to be a chevalier, I thought they were hanged and worse.” Thom bites his tongue, trying to imagine what exactly _worse_ was. No One had told him once that chevaliers took care of their own; death before dishonour was practically binding law to them. Though whether one was bound by fear or unwavering loyalty was dependant entirely upon the chevalier at hand. Some chevaliers had even taken their own lives after they believed they had dishonoured themselves; No One had looked far too miserable telling him about that, and Thom couldn’t decide whether it was for himself or another he once knew. Perhaps it reminded him too much of the sacrifice he was willing to make back in Val Royeaux to see his sister.

It's an idling thought, but he wonders why No One had been willing to sacrifice his life to see his siblings just once, when his daughter had been the only thing to have kept him going. But, he thinks sadly, perhaps he doesn’t have a daughter to return to. If she had passed away or disappeared, where would that leave him? Thom stops the thought from taking root, No One held so much happiness when he thought of his child, and he wouldn’t be the one to ruin that.

“Those who desert the order are publicly executed to serve as a reminder to other chevaliers.” Michel says it as if it is nothing, pulling Thom from his wandering thoughts. “I was exiled, there’s a small difference.”

“I wouldn’t say being alive or dead is a small difference.” Thom snorts.

“I was condemned by one monarch and pardoned by the other. Though I stick to Empress Celene’s punishment, no matter how worse it may be.” He offers, remembering it with mixed emotions. The man who now sat upon the Orlesian throne, bandying about his wedding finger, drinking and warring as he always had done, had once been at the wrong end of Michel’s blade. Gaspard had lost their duel, and yet in a whirlwind of moments they stood side by side. Michel’s victory abandoned and his heritage forgotten. Then, from a man who was widely known to despise the elves, came a pardon with a compliment on his honour, and he had walked away whistling. It had been an odd day to say the least, yet one he would remember until the day he died.

“Gaspard pardoned you?” He asks, finding it hard to believe the Emperor had an ounce of forgiveness in him.

“Surprisingly, yes.”

“But why? He’s a chevalier, and I thought he was, well you know,” Thom shrugs, “an arse.”

“He is,” Michel laughs at his crudeness, though finding it a strong descriptor for the royal. “But he has honour, and executing me would be just as much of a dishonour to him as it would be for me.” Dishonouring another chevalier was just a bad as dishonouring yourself, and Michel had just given him a second chance to claim the Orlesian throne from Celene. Rather, Briala had, but it had been Michel’s blade at his throat, and his arm that had stilled. Emperor Gaspard had even offered to have Michel reinstated into the order, despite what he had found out about the man’s mother, and that had been flattering enough. He believed it may just be a way to get his support, and for Gaspard to be able to use Michel as a weapon in the grand game against the Empress. “Though, you’ve already been pardoned by our Herald, have you not?”

“Yes, I was just…” Thom trails his words off. He was asking on behalf of No One. If Michel knew how to outmanoeuvre the royal chevalier then surely it was possible for someone else to do it. Being pardoned for his desertion would allow No One a freedom that he hadn’t experienced in almost two decades, and that could grant him permission to see his family again, to see his daughter again. Thom could think of no better gift to give the man.

“Curious?” Michel asks.

“Curious.” Thom repeats, nodding and trying to figure out exactly how Michel had done it without asking outright. Though he supposed obtaining a throne was bound to put any man in a forgiving mood. Thom couldn’t offer anything like that, and he had doubts that No One would be able to either.

He stays for a while, mulling over his thoughts, Michel hadn’t really told him anything. Only that he would have to play the game so well that Gaspard would jeopardise himself more by punishing him. Which seems nigh on impossible against an Emperor who has a habit of striking before anything begins to grow. Thom bids his farewell and returns to the tent he shared with Goddard. Though they could sleep soundly within the few buildings that remained mostly undamaged in Sahrnia, it would feel intrusive to the families there; taking people’s beds as if they had no hope of returning home. Tomorrow they will do as much as they can to win back the Emprise du Lion, and they will do the same the day after that until it is safe once more.

No One finds himself in Orlais; in a vaulted room with high twisting pillars, when he looks up he can barely see the portraits across the ceiling. He finds he doesn’t mind the cracks that split it into pieces, nor the shimmer of dust it highlights in green. The walls are lined with doors, so many that it’s a wonder they remain upright, but that doesn’t matter, none of them have any latches. The bed he lay in was made entirely from wood, the sheets and pillows were carved so elegantly around his body but they held no colour. He reminds himself that this is how it has always been as he emerges from the structure.

The dresser is made of cloth, held up with thread, the mirror is stone and the frame made of glass. When he pulls at the fabric drawers they collapse in his hands, and form into clothes with no holes to allow one to dress in them. When he attempts to tie it at his waist the knot fails and slips to the floor no matter how many times he tries. No One remains naked as he is, waiting to wonder and wondering why he waits.

He feels the air shifting around him, and the walls begin to seep back from their position, more doors appear with every few seconds that pass and he is left standing beside the wooden bed alone. A presence makes itself known with the wind, an echo wrapping around him, warming him from within. It is a voice he has never heard before, it does not come from behind any of the doors but slips into his body like an old lover.

No One turns to see the Revenant that stands behind him, several feet taller than him with a blade just as large. From it’s ears dangle two sets of finger bones, and a mouth full of teeth sits around it’s neck. The bedraggled armour it wears is laced with perfectly spherical stones, patterned in such a way that it outshines any diamond. No One doesn’t feel anything but calm as it approaches him, the skin of it’s robes split with every step, and it’s boned feet make no noise save the dust which leaps from it’s path. With it’s sword raised high, it impales it into the ground at No One’s bare feet, and takes his face in it’s skeletal hands. It touches No One gently, almost a caress, before squeezing at his neck until everything begins to fade once more. It is less painful this time, there is little to lose as blood rushes to his head and his lungs collapse. What is there to a wooden bed and too many doors? It is all No One owns, and he holds no love for it.

Three camps are set up relatively easily within the Emprise du Lion, though admittedly it takes a few days to push back the Red Templar forces. Whilst they bring that good news to the village it isn’t enough to bring them into the festivities of Wintersend. Sahrnia has little the celebrate with trade or any strength to organise anything theatrical, there’s a minor argument between a couple after a botched proposal; it wasn’t the time for such joy. It made things worse, being unable to enjoy the festivities they normally would have, and for the village of Sahrnia; Wintersend was simply another fearful day.

A few members of the Inquisition receive gifts from family, but anything impersonal is gifted to those with more need. Goddard receives a timely letter from his wife that he tucks into a pocket in his overcoat, and it causes a small smile to grace his lips throughout the day. Thom feels the slightest twinge of jealousy. No One mustn’t have made it back to Skyhold yet, either that or he has no intention of coming back. He shakes the thought from his head, he must still be travelling, the journey to Lake Calenhad and back could be lengthy even without the heavy snow. Even then his letter would take a week to get to Sahrnia.

It brings Thom to the decision that he should write a proper letter to No One, or rather to Caldwell, before the messenger leaves in the morning. At first, he writes simple things, general niceties that he feels as if he has to put on in his reeling nerves. He scoffs at himself, in his youth he had courted women with fancy flowers with fancier meanings, written soldier’s poetry and made up for its poor-quality with a high-quality tongue. But No One was something else entirely, and he couldn’t decide whether to wax poetic or write as if he wasn’t spending nights masturbating about him. Which he definitely was, and with any hope none of his travelling companions had noticed.

The letter holds words of slight adoration, easy enough to dismiss as not being entirely romantic, yet the underlying affection is there. He once again writes that nothing has changed between them, and that he truly hopes No One will be there waiting for him when he returns from the Emprise du Lion. Thom reminds him that making a promise on your own honour is technically oath binding, no matter how little of it he thinks he has. He writes that if No One cannot do it for his own honour, then do it for on a bastard’s honour. With a flick in his wrist he signs him name, almost writing Blackwall, but catching himself before curling into the letters.

Thom folds the finished product carefully, pouring wax from the basic candle which illuminated the small room onto the open edge. He presses it flat with the bottom of the candleholder instead of the Inquisition’s seal, and blows on it gently. Scrawling a quick _Inquisition Scout / Messenger Caldwell, Skyhold,_ on one side and dropping it into the wooden letter tray for delivery. A similar giddiness returns when he leaves the lettering room. Writing had never been so absurdly touching before, his words hadn’t ever meant that much in this sort of way.

The troops are forced to a halt when scouts return with news of multiple fade rifts. Two are nearby to their third encampment, and the others remain beyond the broken Judicael’s Crossing; posing less of a threat. Bull had pointed out the heavy dragon traffic around the area, and scouts had reported that the Red Templars seem to gather on the other side as well. The grand bridge will have to be restored in order to reach them safely, and with the civil war over, Orlais can rebuild its historical landmark without too much of a distraction. Goddard also believes that if Emperor Gaspard restores his grandfather’s bridge, it will bring some support from those who are still fighting for the Valmont name.

It’s to everyone’s notice that the majority of the Red Templars they fight are merely the foot soldiers. They had fought a straggler Behemoth, but there hadn’t been many Knights or Horrors within the camps. How ever Thom or Dorian tried to spin the information into a positive light, it only bore one question; where were the others? Goddard does admit that a large force had been seen heading north weeks ago, possibly escorting Samson to something that lies in Tevinter or beyond. It could explain why there’s a lack of any red templar variety in the hills, but that creates more fearsome questions. More so when he tells them of Michel’s mission to destroy a powerful demon, who he fears may have taken some of the red templars as his own.

The Inquisitor makes the decision to set up a fourth camp to flank the nearby rift, hoping that the mostly dormant tear would remain that way until he could close it. Thom points out that he runs the risk of being trapped between demons and red templars if the rift opens, it wouldn’t be so much a battle as it would be a free for all. Goddard concedes upon his words, deciding to remove the fade rifts and then establish another camp. Being flanked by demons wouldn’t do anyone any good. Though he does say that if they are flanked by the Red Templars whilst they fight the Fade rifts, they will at least know what exactly is coming for them. The rift could spew out any number of demons, but after a successful scouting party, they would know exactly what lay in the fourth encampment.

It makes Thom feel brighter, happier now things are once again mending between him and the Inquisitor. They hadn’t spoken about Lei, or about No One’s falsehoods, and Thom wasn’t desperate to change that. It would draw unnecessary attention to No One, and he had no doubt that given time and even a spec of information that the Inquisition would figure out who he was. Bull had even admitted to being Ben-Hassrath when he had first met the Herald, figuring that it would be better coming from him than trying to hide anything from something called the Inquisition. But No One didn’t have that luxury, nor was he in any way inclined to aid the Inquisition. Thom wonders for a moment if the oath he had taken upon his pardoning meant that he should relinquish any information he had on No One. He was a criminal, and harbouring a chevalier deserter was bound to irritate the new Emperor. But what they didn’t know and all that, he reassures himself.

Thom thinks of No One that night, the small stone pearl held aloft in the light. If he wasn’t a foot away from the Inquisitor he might have found his thoughts wandering to certain things, but he only thinks of the man’s safety. He tries to think back to a time where he kept a kind of lucky charm on him, he knew a man who kissed his shield before every battle, it hadn’t done much for Thom when he had tried it. In the end that man had suffered from wounds sustained in whichever battle he fought, his shield was mostly unscathed and given to the next soldier. But these stones, they have more history than No One knows of, whether it’s the dalish gods or blood mage jewellery.

“Safety.” Thom whispers, so quietly that the word barely even forms from his mouth, and kisses the tiny gift. He slips it back into the pocket of his coat, keeping his palm lying flat above it. Perhaps kissing this would bring him luck, even if he dreams of kissing the man who gave it to him.

No One opens his eyes slowly, groggily aware of the smell of rotten wood and raw meat. He doesn’t move, too confused about where he is and too exhausted to even try. There are two people on the opposite side of the room, wrapped entirely in strips of undecorated frayed black cloth, leaving nothing exposed. They sit beside a small fire, a wire grid with food upon it cooking slowly. Fish, he thinks, from the smell of it. He has chained cuffs around his wrists and ankles, but they’re far too big and he removes them easily enough, though not as silently as he would have liked.

“Where am I?” he croaks, capturing the attention of the black-clad men. His throat is dry and his mouth too. “Who are you?” No One tries again, pulling himself from the chains and trying to cover his nudity. He’s still naked from his excursion as a wolf, and though his capturers didn’t seem to be too put out by his state of undress, but he’d rather have some clothes on.

There’s a moment between the two, their gloved hands moving silently between each other. No One can’t follow it, but he’s heard about it. A way of communicating without the need for a voice, without needing a tongue. He can think of other explanations for the use of such a language that don’t include the Family, yet there’s no reason these two aren’t Children.

“You’re his, aren’t you? I’m safe?” No One asks boldly. There’s a nod from one of them, whilst the other begins to unwind the cloth from their head. It’s takes a few minutes, and it breathes anxiety into No One’s lungs with every second that passes, but the cloth falls away to reveal scarred skin. Several winding lumps each about an inch long covering the man’s scalp, all lined with black ink and encasing small circles of veridium. The man bows with elegance and procures a letter from a black satchel in the corner.

No One carefully unfolds it when he is gifted it, making sure to keep at least one shackle close at hand, just in case. The scripture inside is of his own hand; the letter he had sent to summon the Green-Eyed Boy. The blackened scars and veridium piercings make sense now. Each one is a decorative eye permanently etched into his skin, and from what No One can see, the scars travel below the winding cloth he wears. He doesn’t know what they mean, whether it’s completed contracts or kills or both, he’s not too keen to find out either. The Family had an odd way of marking their Children, it was cruel and it was permanent.

“And him?” No One asks. The other unwinds the cloth gingerly, revealing a shaved head, though of a young woman, with a freshly made scar just above her right eye. It has the beginnings of the same kind of eyes that smatter the older man, and it tells No One that he can trust them to some extent. Though why they had to go through such peril was unbeknownst to him. He reminded himself that these were people who cut out their own tongues to prove loyalty; bought as children and re-educated until they knew nothing but their title. Green-Eye Boy indeed, he thinks.

The older of the pair sticks two fingers into his mouth, pulling down his jaw to reveal the stump of his tongue. No One responds in kind, showing him his own tongue, which remains happily intact and safe between his cheeks. He looks to the younger woman who copies the action, though she retains her tongue as well. No One looks away and rubs at his nose, shifting to cover his groin up a bit more appropriately. This girl was young, too young to be caught up in this kind of thing.

The Children cut out their tongues on their fifteenth nameday, in the following years they would be sent to assassinate those who had sold them. Usually the Piss Merchant accepted the children to settle a debt, as cruel as it was there were worse alternatives, and those indebted were more often than not their parents. No One thought it was some kind of twisted modern-day slavery, but they were paid handsomely, and they chose to stay. Though he can imagine they had as much choice as he did himself in the matter. Living in Thedas without a tongue and as scarred as the two in front of him, nobody would take them in, they would find no succour beyond the Family home.

“I need some questions answering, and she still has her tongue.” No One says. The man shakes his head in reply, passing No One a small pot of ink and a thing of wood to write down his requested target. “I know we’re near Lake Calenhad, but I can’t remember how I got here. Why was I in shackles?” He scrubs at his face and picks at the stubble across his chin, bloody tongue-less bastards. Perhaps it was all business to them, but they weren’t bound and naked with little memory of the night before.

The older Green-Eyed Boy makes a few gestures at the young girl, and she bows her head, agreeing to whatever he had just told her. For a moment it irritates No One, he hadn’t been allowed to learn the silent language, it would be too much of a risk to let someone with a tongue know of these things. Yet the Children learn it far before they remove their own appendages, it’s easier to teach that way.

“We wanted to make sure you completed the assassination, so we followed you.” She says. Her voice is dry and raspy, as if her lungs struggle to form the breath in which to speak. “You remained as a beast, so we had no choice but to confine you.” It had been a trial for both of the Children, the elder Green-Eyed Boy had followed the werewolf tracks easily enough, tracing him deeper into the wilds. Their Father had requested a watch on their Dog, he had made a mess of his last contract and he wouldn’t have someone ruining the Family’s reputation. Ser Ancel had been slaughtered, so brutally that it made his guts churn painfully. The Green-Eyed Boy hadn’t killed anyone, it was out of his abilities, though he excelled as a silent messenger. He reminded himself that every Child has a place, no matter their talents, they were all loved and cherished.

“I _remained_ as a beast, for how long?” No One asks, perhaps she had her wording wrong. He couldn’t have stayed as a werewolf for that long, though what the Templar had done to him remains as a mystery. The feeling of fading away like that, it prickled his bones, he can’t even remember if he had finished the contract and if that hadn’t been done then this was a waste of time completely.

“Five days.” She croaked, holding five fingers aloft.

“Five- _Five_ days?” He balks. He should be halfway back to Skyhold by now, halfway to hearing from Thom. “What day is it now?”

“Wardensday, Wintersend has passed.” She says. No One bites his tongue, she had no reason to lie. “Father had told us about your nightly transformations, we thought to bring you home.” She adds, it brings an unformed snap from the Green-Eyed Boy beside her.  No One bites his tongue to stop himself from mentioning it, the Family was secretive for a reason. They had agents all across Thedas, No One couldn’t even name a handful, and agents of a certain type had the same name. The Green-Eyed Boy was several men and women, no doubt as were those who took the contract details and the coin. “Then you started talking in your sleep, and last night you returned to us.”

“Did I say anything particular?” No One says, terrified for a moment that he may have spoken about Thom.

“I would not know,” she says, “I do not understand Dalish.” No One frowns, albeit relieved as he is, he doesn’t know any Dalish. As far as he can remember he couldn’t even form a sentence in the foreign tongue. He keeps his gaze on the elder of the two, turning the fish to ensure it cooks evenly, and the returning to squat next to No One. The older man grunts and points at the paper once more, forcing No One to write down a name. With an unsteady hand he writes down Andrastopher’s title, passing it back to the Green-Eyed Boy. He shakes his head and taps the inside of his palm with the backs of his fingers; No One at least understands that. Ser Ancel’s life was not enough to pay for the Warden Commander’s secrets.

“I’ll forgo another job.” He huffs, the man holds up two fingers, and No One nods; two jobs. He’d never pay Thom back at this rate. Finding information about the Grey Warden Commander might be expensive, the man held titles and power so it was to be expected, such coin was remarkably extensive. Three jobs for one man, it was excessive, even for someone so materialistic as the Piss Merchant.

“We recovered your possessions, and we will take our leave.” The young girl says, fetching his tied satchel from across the room and placing it at is feet. “May we never speak again, Dog.” She adds, beginning to wind the cloth back around her face.

“Yes, yes,” He snorts, “may we never speak again.” Pretentious bloody Family, he thinks digging out his breeches, to have their own farewell when they can’t even speak. Dressing himself back in his heavily layered clothes is remarkably comforting, his bones feel chilled never mind the purpling of his skin. The fish had been abandoned above the small fire, so he took it as his own and ate it heartily, leaving some for whatever animal fancied it. He’s relieved when he finds his iron teeth secure in his lyrium pack, and presses them into his mouth with a satisfied wince.

Five days, he thinks, wondering how much of that was spent roaming in the wild. If the Green-Eyed Boy had followed him then surely, they would have had him bound for the entire duration. Yet he can’t shake the feeling that someone had been watching him in his slumber, and it didn’t feel right to blame it on the two who had captured him. No One feels different now, as if a chain had been lifted, but he can’t place why. Had Ser Ancel freed something inside of him with his false magic, and if he had, then what was it and why had it been placed there to begin with.

He waits until dawn before setting off back to Skyhold, resting his aching limbs and trying to figure out exactly what had happened with Ser Ancel. Whatever magic or templar ability he used it had completely destroyed him, he shivers at the thought, it only led him to think that something magical had caused his bestial form. But he was alone, and he doesn’t keep an acquaintance with any mages that know who or what he is. Viola had been the last to cast anything upon him, but that had all been physical magic, nothing which seemed to linger. He stares over at the distant Kinloch hold, was it the proximity to a weakened veil? Or was that a coincidence? No One bites his tongue roughly and turns away, he doesn’t know anything about magic. The only theories he has are that something magic and something Dalish had caused this; both of which remained frustratingly beyond his grasp.

No One wonders what the next two contracts would be, and whether or not they would take him away from Skyhold. It would be worth it in the end, he reminded himself, to cut one leash from his neck and to gain some semblance of freedom. If only he could do so with the Piss Merchant, to leave the Family once and for all. Of course, he thinks, the bastard would probably send Children after him, but if he could kill those then the Piss Monger would give up eventually. He wouldn’t ever be free from his golden feather noose, but he could settle down somewhere far away from busy towns. No One chews his lip and lets the smile break out over his face; he could settle with Thom. If the man still wants him, and if he could rid himself of this blasted werewolf curse.

He would say the walking was endless with the way the scenery changes so little, but each step brings him closer to home, and closer to Thom’s words. If his idea had gone without a fault, then Caldwell should be holding on to whatever Thom had sent. If the man had sent anything, and if anything he had sent contained good words. There’s a chance that Thom could have just waited until he was out of the vicinity to tell him to leave. If he hadn’t have wanted to deal with someone like him, someone whose crimes stack up higher than most others, and that’s without Thom figuring out exactly what he was.

There’s too many ways for things to go wrong, and it’s a fact that No One knows well. Yet, he can’t help but hope that things don’t end badly. He wants Thom, and it’s something he can’t deny, he wants Thom in ways that he hasn’t ever wanted anyone else before. It brings a shudder to his heart and a heat to his chest, Thom could be his everything, and he could only hope with every ounce of his being that Thom could feel that way about him to.


	35. The Last

Skyhold still endured the same number of travellers and pilgrims as it always had done, everyone wanted to marvel at the Herald’s fortress in the sky, and No One slips in with them easily enough. Nobody looks twice at a random face in the crowd, and everyone still wears thick layers to stave of the chill that remains from winter, another well-bundled traveller isn’t anything new. The weather won’t warm until late into spring, and even then, it shan’t carry the heat of a Thedosian summer. Skyhold would forever be a cold place. But that doesn’t bother No One, for now, he’d be happy enough to settle down after a long journey, to rest inside his little home. Though falling asleep would be something he would rather avoid. Lately it had been more of a troubling affair than ever before. His night terrors had been awful, and the injuries caused by his thrashing; worse, but nothing had ever come close to how it was now.

In his dreams, but a few nights ago, he had stood in the Orlesian alienage whence he had drunkenly beheaded an unarmed elven father, and he hadn’t been surrounded by what he had grown used to over the years. Where he had expected the faces of dozens of furious and grieving elves, he had been graced with almost nothing. In their place stood one man, or rather one thing; one demon. No One had seen the figure, too tall to be anything but a demon, with a blade that matched its height that shimmered brightly in the grotesque lighting of the Fade. For a moment he had thought of the staggering height of the Warden Commander, but _he_ wouldn’t appear in his dreams, and if No One had any choice he’d dream of Thom and his thick fingers.

The demon hadn’t done anything, it had simply stood there, waiting for No One to move or do something, anything. He could only think to run, and so he ran, and he ran quickly. Sprinting as fast as he possibly could through winding alleyways and in between far too familiar homes. The demon, a Revenant of all things, had followed him everywhere. It’s footsteps were silent, there was nothing to them, and they left No One without a way to find it. Yet, wherever he turned the demon was there. He couldn’t decide whether the thing wanted to kill him, or was just toying with him, or _what_. All he knew was that he didn’t intend on staying around long enough to find out, but avoiding the demon got harder with every heartbeat.

No One had woken up sweating, ripping air into his lungs, and scrambling away from himself. Never before had he dreamt of demons so vividly. He had seen them travelling across Thedas, twisted as they passed through the veil, but in his dreams, they had always been something familiar. Not this, never like this. It was the first time he had slept since he had met the Green-Eyed Boy and his apprentice, and since that bastard Ser Ancel had done whatever he had to him. It brought more questions to him than it answered; something he could do without for now. Things had been confusing enough since his five-day disappearance and his apparent sleeping Dalish tongue, prowling demons weren’t any kind of blessing.

Last night he had the same dream. That bloody Revenant stalking him without a sound, following every footstep he made. No One had thought it bad when he was facing the boy in the alienage without a name, and though this brings no guilt, it makes up for it by over indulging in his fear. Night terrors didn’t seem to accurately describe what he suffered now. Was it a haunting or some kind or pre-possession? No One bit his tongue aggressively at the thought, wouldn’t it just be his luck to be possessed with all of his other faults mixed in. There’d be something within the mountain fortress’ library at any rate, something on demons or magic; anything would do.

The sight of Skyhold is truly a welcoming one for the man, regardless of his nightmares. The mountain fortress, despite the absence of Thom, had become his home, and what a wonderful feeling it was to return. Yet it is short lived, for the Grey Warden Commander who waits for him beyond the gatehouse, with the same dull expression he always wore. He must have seen him approaching, archers do have a keen eye. It’s an odd surprise to see the human-passing Dalish from before beside him. No One has to dig into his mind to pull the name from his memory, Lei, he thinks, the Inquisitor’s bastard. To see them together, it reminds him too much of the Grand Game, Lei is a pawn and it seems he has been captured already.

Andrastopher catches No One’s eye and waves him over, and for whatever reason he obliges him. Perhaps it was the comfort of a familiar face, despite how much he loathed the man. He slips from the crowds with little grace, causing grunts and mumbles as he bumps into a few people, and makes his way toward the two men. Lei is gone by the time he reaches the Warden Commander, dismissed so that they might have some privacy. The sight of Lei walking away brings a sliver of anxiety to No One’s frame, he didn’t want to be alone with the man.

“You’ve been gone a while.” Andrastopher says as uninterested as he always seemed. The man is dressed in his full Grey Warden uniform, sans armour, with his hair braided and neatly hanging across his shoulders. There’s a hint of something in the air as No One gets closer, perfume he thinks, but it’s subtle enough that it only just gracing one’s nose.

“I’m touched that you missed me.” No One scoffs. Of course, the Grey Warden would have noticed his absence, though what he had done in that time with the information he knows about him; it brings a chill to No One’s gut. “I’d bet you sat up in your little coup waiting for me every day.”

“Come with me.” He sniffs, ignoring the intended bait. Andrastopher had spent his time working on other members of the Inquisition; pulling strings and taking them from others’ hands. He had made few hints about taking Lei on as his apprentice, and they had begun to take root in the young man’s mind; further bringing him on side. Seducing Lady Montilyet was going slowly, but swift Antivan whispers and peacocking his height had done wonders. He supresses a scoff at the memories of being the uglier brother, he still was, of that he had no doubt; Fergus had aged gracefully. But people often looked passed his skin and toward the titles, wealth, and land he currently commanded, and they knew they could do far worse.

“I’ve other things to do, like you said, I’ve been gone a while and it’s been a long journey.” He says and walks passed the Commander, fearful that he may be heading into an ambush if he chooses to follow him. Heading to his home might not be the best idea for now, perhaps he could lose himself in the winding hallways of the mountain fortress. Pinching a few supplies wouldn’t hurt if he had another lengthy journey ahead.

“You’ll have a hard time finding a place to sleep.” Andrastopher calls out, raising his voice only slightly to be heard above the minor distance. It causes No One to stop, biting his tongue until the Warden speaks again. “Your tent has been dismantled, the ramparts repaired, and all your belongings are in the Spymaster’s clutches.”

“What? _Why_?” No One snaps, turning quickly with fury. Had Thom wanted him to leave, was this his way of forcing him to go; by removing everything he had? No, he thought, Thom couldn’t be that cruel. But the Warden Commander could. There’s no emotion in his voice, nothing to indicate that he had done it, but No One couldn’t rule out the possibility. Not yet at any rate, and if it was him then it only fuelled his desire to know all about the Grey Warden’s secrets, and to destroy whatever he held dear.

“Someone doesn’t want you here, evidently. I shan’t ask again.” He adds, indicating for the blonde to follow with a nod of his head. The man walks slow enough for No One to keep his pace, Andrastopher’s legs were unusually long even for a man of his height. There’s nary any time that passes before he figures out the Warden Commander is taking him to his own rooms, it would grant them privacy to some extent, and windows large enough for No One to jump from should he need to.

“Who doesn’t want me here?” No One hisses, chasing after the man and climbing the stairs to the upper courtyard. Andrastopher seemed to know a lot of things he shouldn’t, and if it was him who had removed the home them he might know something else. If it wasn’t done on his order, then he should at least know whether it had been done upon Thom’s.

“Fewer people than those who don’t want me here.” He admits, glancing down at the shorter man. It’s easy enough to spot the panic behind his anger, Andrastopher knows too many men who hide their distress with aggression, some do it well, and others not so well. He thinks it’s too soon to decide which kind Chevalier is. “It’s not Ser Rainier, if that’s what you fear. Scout Maelarith holds an amicable letter for you from him; Caldwell, I believe he chooses to go by now.”

“You say that like you know him.” No One says. He’s relieved that it’s not Thom, even if he only has his word to go on, but he doesn’t know what he would have done if it was him. Yet the Warden isn’t telling him who it is specifically, just that he is more hated than No One is, and it’s far more likely that he be removed first. The fact that Andrastopher knows Caldwell’s last name comes as a surprise. No One knew the young elf was Dalish, but he had never spoken about his clan, and had never mentioned his last name to him either. Maelarith doesn’t sound the least bit familiar, which was odd considering how well he apparently knew Dalish himself.

“I’ve heard about clan Maelarith; Caldwell is the only surviving member, the endling of his clan.” Andrastopher pauses for a moment, pondering about the young man. He keeps his hand on the tavern door, as if waiting for words to form in his lungs. “I’ve an admiration for that, surviving as the last.” He remembers the year he had spent as the last Cousland, believing that Fergus had perished with their army, and grieving for his massacred family. Andrastopher still had his son, but the boy was a mage, and just as likely to be hunted down and killed by the Howes as he was himself. But he repaid that in kind. One Howe, a young man named Nathaniel, had been allowed to live out his days as a Grey Warden under his command. Such as he had by the saving grace of Ser Duncan. But the rest will be hunted until Andrastopher perishes, one by one they die at his hand, whether they knew Rendon Howe or not, and it brings him a thrill that nothing could match.

“ _Heard_ about?” No One mimics, an accusation already forming on his tongue, “is this the clan you slaughtered a decade ago for your own gain?” He presses in closely to the Grey Warden’s side, blocking him from opening the door or stepping away. Had clan Maelarith been the one to originate the werewolf curse? No One grits his iron teeth, feeling them bite into his gum and the rush of blood, if there were no remaining members then what chance did that give him?

“Yes.” Andrastopher says, peering down at No One’s stance, the man was prickled and hardly even trying to hide his anger. His words tell him that the man had at least done some research into his actions during the blight; he knew about Zathrian’s clan, and the men he cursed to be wolves. Genitivi, that pious bastard, wrote about all his misdeeds and valour despite how gruesome they may have been. “Those elves died because of their Keeper’s idiocy and inability to accept things that had already happened.” Being branded as an enemy to the Dalish could be quite intense at times, it’s a wonder Lei doesn’t find an issue with it, perhaps he’s fool enough to think crimes are actually forgotten within the order. He can admit that the Dalish had always been standoffish towards him even before the butchery, rounded-ears and a certain lilt to your voice and you’re just like every other coin-hogging shemlen.

“You fucking bastard.” No One sneers, wondering whether or not he could get away with beating the Commander into the ground. Piss on his admiration for the young man, it meant nothing when he had been the one to cause so much pain. The knowledge only seemed to solidify his need to find something out about Cousland, he wanted to hurt the man, to destroy him or everything he held dear. It justified his letter to the Green-Eyed Boy, it justified his actions, and it gave him little reason to regret his time spent lost for those few days.

“You were not there. Their Keeper died for his crimes, and clan Maelarith died because they foolishly chose to attack me.” Andrastopher doesn’t raise his voice or snipe out his words, and there’s little to indicate that No One shouldn’t believe him. “I take no pride in that action, I know what it is to be the last.” With those words it’s almost evokes a sympathetic hum from No One, as if he could have anything but hatred for the man standing in front of him. He almost felt guilty himself; he couldn’t deny that he felt anger not only for the Dalish who had been killed, but to know that there was little to no chance of finding out about the curse now.

“You’re being awfully talkative.” No One hisses. He knew about the Cousland massacre, how Andrastopher remained as only one of two left in the family. Perhaps he found a commonplace with Caldwell, or he found something of himself in the clan he had destroyed. The Warden Commander is stone-faced and would probably excel in the Grand Game, but that was borderline complimentary, so he would keep it to himself. As always, the man let nothing be seen, and No One could not read his expressions for he seemed to lack any and all emotion.

“Perhaps I’m of a mood today,” He admits, pushing open the door to the tavern, “and it’s to your benefit that you find friends in high places.” It’s the middle of the afternoon so the early drinkers have started to pile in, but it’s empty for the most part. Andrastopher has been glad for the absence of The Iron Bull, he has grown weary of the Tal-Vashoth ears always listening. Though he would be a fool to think Bull didn’t have friends still milling around Skyhold. His Chargers remained, and he probably had a few servants on side as well. Though whether or not they knew about Bull being Tal-Vashoth, and about him being Tallis, was something else entirely. He would have to climb that wall if it was ever built. But if the Inquisition could allow one Ben-Hassrath so close to the Inquisitor, then what was one more.

“We’re not friends.” No One bites, even in Orlais friends didn’t blackmail each other with consequences so possibly fatal. As if he could be anything but hostile to a man who had done such terrible things. He follows him up the stairs and around the second floor, and the man is silent for its duration. It gives No One a few seconds to think about a plan to escape; if he lands properly he could jump back down to the first floor without issue.

“We aren’t.” Andrastopher says, closing the door to his room behind them both. He leans against it, effectively trapping No One’s safer escape route, whilst the blonde tries to figure out how to open the window latches as quickly as possible. “Do you understand what blackmail actually entails, Chevalier?” The name brings a prickle of anger to No One’s chest; anyone could hear them in here.

“I’m Orlesian.” He scoffs, regardless of his anxieties. There isn’t a single Orlesian noble who doesn’t understand the basic comings and goings of blackmail, and if there was; then No One can admit that they’re probably dead or disgraced by now.

“Usually one does everything they can to stop secrets becoming public, following the rules and engagements, and not mysteriously disappearing without consent or prior arrangements.” He says it almost as if they had signed a binding contract. As if this whole thing was entirely business, and not some plot that would lead No One straight into a noose.

“A long-winded way of saying you actually did miss me.” He jests. He feels at odds being punished by the man who had been one of the reasons he had left Skyhold in the first place. A slight fear buds in him, thinking that perhaps Andrastopher had somehow found out, but he reminds himself that it couldn’t be that way. No matter the Grey Warden’s ability to find out anything he wanted, he couldn’t penetrate the Family’s secrets. Nobody could.

“I asked you to watch over Kieran. I expect it done, if you so much as leave Skyhold again I will hunt you down like a prized boar.” The words are threatening, and for a bizarre reason Andrastopher’s blasé tone makes them all the more aggressive. 

“I believe you.” No One says. He can remember the arrow that Andrastopher had held to his face; shining silverlite with blue feathering at one end. It had been a royal arrow, and it had been the first in a long time to be aimed so closely at him.

“Your trust is hardly a concern.” He says, taking a seat and allowing No One to leave if he chose to.

“I don’t trust you.”

“As I said.” Andrastopher says, his voice quiet for the knock that comes from his door. It opens carefully, a face peering in before it breaks into a shy sort of smile. “Ah, Oscar, come, come, sit. My friend Easton was just leaving.” No One files the name and his appearance away for later, apparently the Warden Commander had friends. Or was this man more than a friend? He can’t help but pick up on the shift in Andrastopher’s tone and posture. No longer does he look sour-faced and irritated with every breath, but he looks softer, a twitch to his lips and a wrinkle about the eyes.

“I didn’t mean to intrude, Monsieur.” Oscar admits, offering an apologetic smile to No One. The title sticks in his mind; this man isn’t Orlesian and neither is Andrastopher. Which means he knows that No One _is_.

“And you’ve brought tea, your kindness knows no bounds.” The Warden Commander waves off his words, gesturing for the seat opposite and setting the tea between them.

“It’s just tea, Andras.” He laughs nervously, clearing his throat as the other pours them two cups. No One feels as if he’s stepped into another world. This man, the one who blackmailed him into technically stalking a child, was having tea and playing nice and courtly. The shortened name doesn’t slip by him either, he hasn’t heard anyone call him Andras since he had known him. They were far too familiar to simply be friends.

“Nonsense, my dear-” _my dear,_ No One thinks, “-tea is the first thing I reached for the morning after the blight, isn’t it strange how you can find such comfort in a drink.” Andrastopher blows carefully on his own cup, his grace as a nobleman filtering through his grim Warden personality, and turns to No One. “What about you, Easton?”

“Peaches and whiskey, and you?” He has to bite his tongue before he speaks. If the Warden Commander had a bit of fancy on the side then surely that’s blackmail material enough, so why does he keep him here. This Oscar didn’t look much like an assassin, nor did he look very Antivan, and he definitely wasn’t an elf, so it couldn’t be the Warden’s partner. Was it a game, he wonders, was this what caused his talkative mood? A simple visit from a friend of sorts.

“There’s a wine made from these dark berries that only grow in northern Tevinter, I’ve only drank it once or twice but it is delicious.” Oscar talks with too many words; _Tevinter wine_ would have sufficed. “It’s a shame you don’t partake.” _Oh?_

“There’s little point when you’re as Grey as me.” Andrastopher says, and turns back to Oscar and gently taps his shoulder. “Ah, lest I forget, this is the man who’s tent you tore down a few weeks ago.” _Oh._ No One sniffs his disapproval, but it’s evidence at any rate. He’ll admit to himself that it’s a kindness on Andrastopher’s part, whatever his intentions may be, it settles some nerves about Thom’s decisions. Though he imagines that whatever the man has chosen; Caldwell holds his answer.

“I, I, you have my apologies, my Lord, it was an order from the Spymaster. Lady Leliana still has your belongings, I’m sure she’ll hand them over easily enough.” Oscar stutters out his response, his hands gesturing his apologies as if his words couldn’t. No One waves him off, wondering why the man thinks he’s noble, knowing he hadn’t left anything in that tent. Not anything incriminating. But he had left Thom’s clothes in there, and he would want those back indefinitely.

“Enjoy the garden, Easton.” Andrastopher says, nodding to the man so he might leave.

“Enjoy your tea.” No One mimics falsely. His thoughts are bound by new information; the Grey Warden has some sort of budding paramour and he doesn’t drink anything alcoholic. Easton, he thinks, Andrastopher had made a point of calling him that. It was one of the false names that No One had called himself, but there hadn’t been anything behind it. Easton Nock had been a tailor’s son somewhere in Starkhaven; No One had kissed him pretty and left him the morning after. He wondered if Andrastopher had chosen that name specifically, the Warden had already told him he knew of all of his names; perhaps Easton was the most believable.

But, he thinks, he doesn’t look like someone who would have that name, but he doesn’t look like No One either. Not anymore, Thom had made him into something, into someone. His real name settles in his lungs for a moment, and he wonders whether the name his mother had given him actually suited him. One day he’ll be able to ask Thom that, he hopes.

In the Emprise du Lion, Thom sits beside an injured villager, exhausted, feeding the young man. He was one of the people they had rescued from the quarry. Some hadn’t such extensive wounds, they had only been taken a few weeks ago, but some had been held for months. Their bodies had withered away, too frail to care for themselves. It pains Thom to think of what could have been their fate; the Red Templars would work them to exhaustion, and as they starved they would become the compost for the red lyrium to grow from. It was vile, and the villagers needn’t know such detail. Only Goddard and Dorian had seen that first hand, in the future that would never come to be.

Goddard had barely kept his composure, Thom knew he hadn’t handled such news well himself. To know the mayor of Sahrnia had been taking money from the Red Templars all this time; blood money, Dorian had spat. They hadn’t yet returned to the small village, they had been tending to the wounded as best they could until it was safe to escort them back home. Some of their families had made the journey to the quarry to be with the injured, and it had brought warmth to their chests and tears to their eyes. This was the good work of the Inquisition. Saving the world and all of that was all well and good, but seeing the effect it had on the little people, it was indescribable.

Food was still rationed, but they had heard from their main encampment that supplies would be here within a day or two. As would the engineers to rebuild Judicael’s Crossing. Emperor Gaspard had written to say he was sending only the best to complete the job, which they all hoped wouldn’t extend the work by any means. It wasn’t as if they could throw down a few wooden boards to walk across like they had done in the Exalted Plains.

For now, the Red Templar threat had been mostly vanquished, and all known fade rifts had been closed. All that remained within their reach was Imshael. After what had happened at Adamant Fortress none of them were excited to face more demons, and it had only been recently that Goddard had explained the power the thing had. Cunning, Michel had called it, cunning enough to trick the man into freeing it those few years ago.

The Inquisitor had squeezed everything he could out of the Orlesian, yet the man had remained remarkably tight lipped. He had asked if it was guilt, and it was clear enough on his face that it was. Michel had eventually admitted what Emperor Gaspard had later told him. Clan Virnehn, those that had held the demon, had been slaughtered, leaving only the children behind. Apparently, Imshael wasn’t monstrous enough to kill them, but everyone assumed it had other plans for them. Whether Gaspard had told him the truth about the massacre remained unknown to Michel, but the man had no reason to lie, and such gruesome tales were not in the Emperor’s usual repertoire. It would be an exhausting fight to Suledin Keep. Scouts had spotted the missing Horrors and Knights up there, and there were many of them. Reports also came back telling of giants encrusted with red lyrium, something they had thankfully not seen anywhere else.

Thom stands on watch that night, walking the walls of the quarry with a hand on the hilt of his sword. A guard would relieve him in an hour or so, allowing him a few hours of rest before they could leave for Suledin Keep. More scouts would arrive in the early hours of tomorrow, and they could keep the villagers safe and move them slowly back home. For now the Mayor will keep her title, it would cause too much disruption and too much upset to remove her amidst such chaos.

His thoughts travel back to Skyhold, and how everyone fares there, and for a moment he thinks of Markham. Of his sister Liddy, and his parents. If they would be proud of him today, regardless of every wrong turn he has ever made, where he stands right now is the right place to be. He wasn’t at the forefront; his standing couldn’t compare to that of the Herald of Andraste. Perhaps he would be forgotten in the history books, or would he be remembered as the Inquisitor’s willingness to forgive. It wouldn’t matter in the end. But he shrugs off the cold and thinks that Liddy would be proud of him.

Thom picks the stone pearl from his pocket, keeping it in hand as he waits through the night. He digs it into his palm every so often to remind himself that it’s still there, and that he hasn’t dropped it into the snow. No doubt if he lost it the stone would be trodden into the ground and misshapen with pressure, and it wouldn’t be able to keep anyone safe then. He kisses it lightly before slipping it back and keeping it somewhere that meant he wouldn’t lose it easily. Perhaps No One was right, he thinks, the little stone makes him feel secure beyond reasonable measure.

The scout riding between here and Skyhold should arrive back tomorrow, carrying with him a letter from No One. Perhaps that is what has him in such good spirits, knowing that he’ll hear from the man for the first time in weeks. He has missed him immeasurably, he jokes that his body was thankful for his absence and the lack of alcohol he had been plied with. But a swimming liver wasn’t any kind of reason to leave No One alone, he clouds his thoughts the majority of the time and the idea of having the man disappear made his heart sink. Thom wanted to help him, his feelings made things blurry, but he wanted No One to be happy.

After the meeting with Andrastopher, No One knew he had to find out exactly what Thom had written in his letter. The Warden Commander could just be bullshitting him for all he knew; lying just so he would do his bidding. He had figured out why Andrastopher had wanted him to remain whilst he spoke to Oscar though, he must have told him something about No One, or else the man wouldn’t have known about his heritage. It worried him about how much the Warden had spoken about, it wasn’t hard to put a trained fighter and an Orlesian noble together to get a chevalier. It was easier to figure out a chevalier without a golden feather didn’t want to be known as one, and only those hiding or currently absent without leave do that.

But it was hard to tell what the Grey Warden Commander wanted. He had asked him to watch over Kieran, yet protested that he despised the Fereldan monarchs, he told him that he wouldn’t stray but he was sweet talking his way into Oscar’s bed earlier. Either the man was unabashedly undecisive, or he was playing every angle he could, damned be the consequences. It was a dangerous position, no doubt his title granted him some immunities, but still there was a viable threat to his decisions. The whole thing budded as an unpleasant ball of anxiety in his gut, if only because he didn’t quite know how the man was trying to play him. No One wondered whether the man even needed to anymore, he already had him trapped with a fatal secret.

“Wystan, you’re back.” Caldwell says, a smile breaking out over his features. He no longer bears the bruises he had whence No One had left, but there were new ones in place already. It breaks No One from his thoughts, it seems the young man had found him quicker than he could find the young man. It saved him a journey of wandering the halls of Skyhold at any rate. “It’s good to see you safe.”

“And you.” No One can’t help but smile himself. This was his friend, not like that cunt Andrastopher, and he finds that he had actually missed the young red-headed elf. Though it’s the Warden Commander’s words that echo in his mind, pulling at his lips until his outward happiness diminishes. Calling Caldwell the last, and knowing that his family’s murderer was within walking distance, it felt dirty. Definitely not in the kind of way that No One would want a secret to feel. It felt like guilt even though he hadn’t done anything wrong, but simply having the knowledge was condemning enough.

“I have your letter, it’s been here for a few days already, though the scout bound for the Emprise has already left.” He says clearing his throat. He looks almost guilty himself, as if it had been his fault that No One hadn’t been able to reply immediately to the letter that Thom had sent. “Sorry, I didn’t know when you were coming back.”

“I was held up.” He lies, _chained down_ would have been truer, yet unquestionably inappropriate.

“Are you alright? You look…” Caldwell trails off his words, not wanting to pick a word to describe how gaunt the man looked. Travelling was known to take something out of you, but he couldn’t help but think that something had happened. Wystan looked almost disheartened or ghostly, and he was usually so full of life. He thought the news of Thom’s letter would make him brighter, he had seen the pair growing much closer than ever before as of late. Caldwell could admit he was a smidgen jealous, Wystan had something else about him.

“I’m tired, is all.” Another lie.

“Sorry.” He laughs nervously, apologising again, picking through a hidden compartment in his satchel and plucking out a sealed letter. “Here’s the letter from Thom, and for what it’s worth I’m glad you’re back.”

“You are?” The words tumble from his mouth before he could stop them.

“Of course, when you’re free we could get a drink? It’s hard to find someone to talk to about the training regime, they already know all about it.” He says with a tinge of laughter. His concern is filtered out by the reappearing smile upon his lips, and a shrug to rebalance his satchel.

“Yes, I’d be… yes.” No One gestures to send him on his way with a grin, he knows the young man has work upon work to do. A letter from Thom and a friend to welcome him home, things were going well, undeniably things were going great. A small unwanted voice reminds him that the letter could still contain a missive for him to leave, and he squashes the thought and slinks off to Thom’s bedchamber. That was one place he could stay for the time being.

No One reads through Thom’s letter multiple times, with each sentence a grin comes to his face and he has to regain his composure to continue. There is kindness in his words, he almost begs him to stay. For the first time in a long time No One feels loved and wanted. Not romantically, he reminds himself to stop his thoughts from running away, they weren’t there yet if they ever would be. But as friends, as companions, Thom wanted him to stay. It makes him weep inside of Thom’s chambers. Tears spill forth and he is unwilling to stop them; it makes reading all the more harder but he doesn’t care. He can see the underlying romance in his words, No One was Orlesian and this kind of thing was commonplace, and it gave him a flutter to his chest that he had nary felt before he had met Thom.

Even the first letter, more of a note than anything, that Caldwell had given him had evoked such strong emotions. It had only been a single sentence, and all it asked was that No One remain. Not forever, it wasn’t eternally binding, but just until Thom could get back from the Emprise du Lion.

He doesn’t have to search long to find Thom’s scripture set, packed away neatly in a true soldier’s fashion. It’s not as fancy as the one he used to have. Now it sits in the Spymaster’s belongings he’s rather glad he burnt all of his letters; if they had found the one to Adeline, it could have been disastrous. It only serves to remind him that some things shouldn’t be written down. Even for the sake of history some things are better omitted, like myself, he thinks.

No One stalls with his pen in hand, remembering that there’s a possibility that the Inquisition know he’s Orlesian. Would it be so harmful to write in his native tongue? He wonders. Thom had written to him in Trade, but the man had already proved he could read Orlesian as swiftly as any other language. No One wouldn’t be able to read or write in Free Marcher at any rate, and he finds it odd that a man so well-travelled had only learnt two languages, one of which being his native tongue. Technically three languages, he reminds himself sorely, Dalish was becoming something of a recurrent theme lately. He doesn’t count the few choice phrases he had learnt in cheap taverns and bawdy houses. He decides to write in his native tongue, if the Inquisition already know then what issue is it. There must be thousands upon thousands of Orlesians in Thedas, what was one more?

His scripture is more than elegant, looping swirls and drawn out accents, and it makes him feel honest for a reason that eludes him. Perhaps it is because it is his true writing, not something falsely made to hide who he really was. No One writes of his intentions to stay in Skyhold, and how eager he is to see Thom again despite only being apart for a few weeks. He explains his delay in writing, and hopes that he hadn’t caused any undue anxiety for the man. There’s little else to write except for No One’s lack of accommodation, and he writes a jesting plea about staying in Thom’s room for the time being. Though he does mention that he is saddened by the fact that there is little left of what they had built together, in a way that had hurt him indescribably; to lose such a thing, and that he would not ask if he could stay anywhere else. No One bites his tongue at the lie, he did have a room here once, no doubt he could get one again. But the temptation to spend his hours under Thom’s sheets was too much, and he would leave if asked to do so.

He signs it as -N and seals it with candlewax, pressing it closed with a blank diamond shaped stamp. Elegantly he writes _Ser Thom Rainier, Companion to the Inquisitor, Soldier of the Inquisition, Sahrnia, Emprise du Lion_ , and lays it down gently for the ink to dry. No One’s Trade scripture was hardly as neat as his Orlesian, but Trade was blocked shapes and bold lettering, hardly made for the thin swirls of an Orlesian hand. But his lessons from his youth still sat heavily in his mind, and he wouldn’t have his letters getting lost.

No One finds himself giddy as he sits in Thom’s room, tomorrow he would leave the letter in Caldwell’s capable hands. He would pass it to whoever travelled to and from the Emprise and directly into Thom’s grasp. For a moment he fantasises about riding to Sahrnia himself, finding him amidst the heavy snows, and kissing him like he was starved. But there was too much risk involved. Instead he lets his imagination run away with him, spread out on Thom’s bed. He doesn’t touch himself, he simply lays there watching his fingers curl and uncurl, wanting so desperately for Thom’s hand to be there. Picturing the man beside him, tousled hair and a lingering grin, the whisper of laughter across his lips. They wouldn’t even have to do anything, laying together, simply being beside each other. It wasn’t about sex as it had been with many others, not that he wouldn’t jump at the chance to be naked with him, it just wasn’t a priority any more.

Still, his mind wanders. If Thom was only wearing a grin, laying beside him in bed like that. His blue eyes ablaze with lust, because there was lust in them both, a desire to do more, to feel him from within and from without. No One curls his fingers as much as he curls his toes, sex, he thinks, sex with Thom filled him with an aching want. He chews on his lower lip, sucking it into his mouth and dragging it between his teeth, imagining that Thom was the one doing it to him. His fingers trail down his jaw, haggard nails scratching at his too long stubble, and tugging on the layers he still wore.

No One pulls himself out of what he can, abandoning it on the floor just beside the bed, and climbing beneath the sheets. They smelt of lingering dust and a whimper of linen soap. His room must have been cleaned as he left, No One clambers from the bed quickly, tugging a shirt from the wardrobe. He presses it to his face and inhales deeply; the fabric is too rich to endure washes upon washes, and Thom’s scent still lingers. A shiver fills him when he slips the silk over his frame. It reminds him of the shirts he had worn in Orlais, dyed and littered with jewels, drowned in perfume and sweet-smelling oils, matched with breeches, doublets, gloves, hats, shoes, capes, and whatever else had been in fashion at that time.

He catches sight of himself in the mirror above Thom’s vanity. A cadaverous frame and a lantern-jaw hidden beneath untamed black hairs, too many hours spent awake had drawn purple beneath his eyes. The scars, he thinks sadly, twisted lumps of flesh weaved within his face. No One lets the shirt hang open, his fingers trailing the dagger wound that lanced his chest. He can remember slipping into shirts like this daily without a thought, how many hours had gone into making his clothing perfect only for it to be ruined by spilt wine or a quicker draw in a duel.

“I used to be fat.” He laughs softly, his hands cupping the small swell of his gut, only there because of his age. Fat and greedy like every other Orlesian nobleman; he could afford to eat and throw entire meals away without a second thought. But that didn’t matter any longer, that isn’t who he is anymore. He forsook that life, even if it had been an unwilling choice at first, he had adapted, and Thom had already seen him mostly naked. Thom had seen all of this, and knew most of his faults, and he had still kissed him with a kindling desire. No One pulls the shirt around himself tighter, buttoning the cuffs and two at his waist. He wouldn’t be able to sleep tonight but he gathers himself underneath Thom’s sheets anyway; curling into his own warmth. Here in Thom’s space, very little mattered but his thoughts of the other man.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone knows what Zathrian's clan was actually called let me know? I can't find anything at all... :|


	36. Of Whiskey and Lyrium

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: This chapter contains descriptions of injuries.

Imshael was a bastard. He, it, whatever, was a right proper bastard. Fighting through Red Templar Horrors, Red Templar Knights, and giants encrusted with red lyrium had been bad enough, even with a throbbing head wound, but Imshael’s transformative nature had been just a touch too cruel. The Iron Bull had his shoulder dislocated in the midst of the battle, he had fought through it with a strength unseen, but his great axe had been wild in its swings. It forced the three warriors apart, and Dorian had to keep Bull in the fight whilst defending himself. Goddard’s breastplate had been caved in, and his wrist broken, Dorian had over extended his use of magic; leaving him exhausted and the blade of his staff was left in the chest of a Horror. In the face of it, Thom thought he had gotten off lighter than most, blurred vision and dizziness was easy enough to get over.

Still, Bull had limped over and forcibly sat Thom down after the battle, putting Dorian next to him, letting him lean into Thom’s side and fall asleep on his shoulder. The mage wouldn’t admit to it when he woke up, but Thom probably wouldn’t be able to remember it either. Goddard, sans half of his armour, was doing his best to splint his own arm. Red faced and sweating, it was obvious he was struggling to get anything to stay in place. He made light of it by saying the Anchor had made him endure much worse than the pain of a simple fracture. None of them could tend to Bull’s injury, so he had to fix it himself. There was only a grunt and a soft sigh before the Qunari staggered back to help the Herald fix up his splint.

Goddard rigs up the Inquisition’s flag, slowly, a way to signal for nearby scouts to move in and to claim the keep for his own. Several of them had helped to clear the way to Imshael, fighting alongside their Inquisitor, but almost all of them had stayed to keep watch at certain interludes. Being trapped in Suledin Keep by a secondary Red Templar force would be most unfortunate, and they hadn’t the numbers to take the Keep with sheer numbers and brute force and maintain a watch perimeter as well. He orders Bull to watch over Thom, to keep him awake and talking. Head wounds could be the death of many, and from the dent in Thom’s helmet and the swelling on his temple, it could get very serious very quickly if he passed out.

“So, your still hung up on this letter?” Bull asks, sitting opposite him and rubbing at his recently fixed shoulder. Thom’s sure he’s suffered those before, he knows they’re agonising, and he has no idea how Bull got through that pain to carry on fighting. He can’t say he wasn’t glad for it, his axe had cleaved through half of Imshael’s neck when he had become a demon of Pride. The towering beast had staggered back with the wound and it granted them a few seconds to readjust themselves.

“Like you said before, I’m sure he’s just delayed.” Thom shrugs, blinking hard to stop the blackness seeping into his vision. All the letters from Skyhold to Sahrnia had been delivered, and he had been left wanting; wondering why No One hadn’t written to him. Goddard received several, urgent business that needed attending to, and letters from family. Still nothing from Fulton, apparently, the boy held grudges as well as his father could. Bull got one from the Chargers, he and Dorian had laughed over that together. But Thom hadn’t anything.

To see all those grinning faces, surrounded by happiness and relief, and to receive nothing. It burnt holes in his stomach. Thom had asked the messenger scout about letters for him, desperate for a simple enough answer. Perhaps No One hadn’t given him a letter in time, or hadn’t been able to write one before the scout left for the Emprise du Lion. But the scout hadn’t much to say, he hadn’t even see a man of No One’s description recently. It had made his throat swell and his words choke in his lungs. No One hadn’t made it back to Skyhold, No One might never make it back to Skyhold.

The thought had festered in his mind as they had travelled to Suledin Keep, marching through heavy snows littered with red lyrium. Thom had thrown himself into the battles they eventually won, cutting down Red Templars with an unbidden fury. It was a simple distraction, blood and fire to burn through his mind and try to dispel his fears. He desperately tried not to think of what could have happened to No One. The roads were perilous, full of dangers, the weather was foul, anything could have befallen the man. A thought in his head makes itself known before Thom could dampen the flames. What if he was dead? It made him feel sick with guilt.

It wasn’t just the lack of No One’s letter and the rambling thoughts about where he could be that ailed Thom, it was the feeling of having failed the other man. Of course, they had grown close since they had first met each other, there was little in the way of denying that, but he wanted to help No One. If he had run away then Thom hadn’t done a good enough job, and helping those who suffered in similar situations as he had was something he desperately wanted to do. It was something he had promised that he would attempt ever since he had been pardoned by the Inquisitor.

“You worried about him?” Bull says. He doesn’t need to ask, the past few days had been like talking to a stone wall when it came to Thom. It wasn’t fair to ask him about No One now, to fish for information on the assassin, but Bull had a job to do and it wasn’t as if he hadn’t lubricated a few tongues unjustly before. Now though it was different, Thom was a friend, and Bull wasn’t Qunari anymore. Red still needed information, the Adeline line had turned up with nothing, those who it could have been were dead, accounted for, or had too much of a difference in age. Though it was something they kept in mind, when they eventually find out who he was, having a sister named Adeline will only reinforce their knowledge.

“He’s with a friend.” He huffs indignantly, trying to reassure himself. No One was safe, with a friend, he must be. He presses his hand into the stone that he held in his pocket, feeling it dig unpleasantly into a bruised stomach, but it brought a calmness to him despite the pain. No One should have taken the stone for himself, and he regrets not being able to give him something in return for this safety.

“A friend, or a _friend_?” Bull emphasizes his last word with a tilt to his head; he knew Thom had feelings for No One, he had known that months before either of them had figured it out.

“You’re spending too much time with Dorian, you’re starting to sound like him.” Thom laughs, flinching when his head reminded him of his injuries. They all had bumps and scrapes, but he could only imagine the swell of his face. He lifted his fingers to touch at it tentatively and found it obtuse and bulbous. It probably would have been better to split, to let the blood out instead, a keen knife would do the trick. “No One wouldn’t do that.” He adds in a softer voice. If No One had gone to meet a _friend_ then it was better than him being dead by all accounts, Thom didn’t have any claim on the man, though he hoped that their situation would warrant some kind of explanation. Was it wrong of him to wish for monogamy between the pair? Nothing had been set in stone, not yet at any rate.

“So, it’s official then, _nice_ , big guy, back in the saddle.” He guffaws, slapping Thom on the shoulder and pulling his hand away from his face. Dorian grunts in his sleep, disapproving of such loud noises.

“It’s not…” Thom says, wondering exactly what they weren’t. They had both wanted to be with each other, No One had been the one to stop that because he wanted to confess to certain things about his past. But what he had felt then, shirtless above him with their bodies pressed together, he was certain No One had felt like that too.

“He reminds me of you, similar circumstances and all that.” Bull interrupts, worried that Thom’s trailing words might be due to his injury. Goddard looks over with a raised brow, but Bull nods to reassure him.

“How so?”

“Fake name, running from your crimes, consistently lying, hey, maybe even that moustache is a disguise.” He grins with his final words, recalling a conversation they had all those months ago. No One wasn’t too friendly with the locals either, and _Blackwall_ had made a point of sticking to the back of the group whenever they met important figures or other Grey Wardens. Bull had thought that odd even back then, but the Qunari didn’t know that much about the order, so it was hard to judge what caused his actions.

“Was I that bad?” Thom says with a painful furrow in his brow. A little snow tied in an old rag would do him some good, to numb the feeling in his head right now. They had drank all of their potion stock already, and a poultice wouldn’t do him any good.

“A bit, you’re both pretty tough to figure out,” Bull shrugs, “it’s hard to catch a lie when the person lying is so convinced of themselves.” And he had been so convinced, not enough that Bull couldn’t latch onto it, just enough to keep his reasons blurred.

“A little Ben-Hassrath tip?” Thom snorts, trying to forget the insults, and the singular complement, that the Qunari had thrown his way.

“Hey, it’s good advice.” He jabs him in the arm and lets a grin tail his lips. “Helps you keep up with the truth as well, good liars play through their lies in their head pull at their heartstrings to get it real. Knowing what they would feel in that situation, the right expressions at the right time.” It’s how Bull was taught to lie, planning words carefully, measuring pitch and speed, watching the eyes, the nose, the slant of the brows. Knowing how to tell who was lying, and how to make sure they didn’t know he was.

“So how do you know if it’s fake?” Thom asks. He had once been unsure of everything that No One would tell him, afraid they would be lies. But with the calamity of what he had said, it was too much to be anything but the truth. Yet he has a curiosity, a desire to know, whether that was unfair to No One or not he hadn’t yet weighed upon.

“Take a guy like Cousland, he lost everything, but he doesn’t sit around moping about old wounds. Liars would pick the scabs raw, make them bleed and make sure everyone knows.” Bull says flippantly. It’s a bad example, he knows that the Warden Commander has undergone similar training to that of what Bull had, not the same exactly, Bull was filed off to become Hissrad and Andrastopher was trained to become Tallis. But it was close enough, and he knew how well Andrastopher lied, he had heard enough of it in the tavern. Though he wasn’t fool enough to think Andrastopher wasn’t feeding him everything he wanted him to know, and keeping the rest to himself. “You can’t heal if the wounds aren’t real.”

“He told me about the massacre at Castle Cousland.” He can remember the pain on his face, and the words from his throat; _hiding in a kitchen larder with my mother, both of us kneeling in my father’s blood_ , it printed a foul image in Thom’s mind just as it had done before. As hard as it had been to imagine the stoic Warden Commander before he became the Hero of Ferelden, the picture had forced itself into Thom’s mind, and it was one that lingered whenever he saw the man. He grimaces at the memory, trying not to let it turn into the face of No One.

“So, he trusts you, to some extent. But that’s where it gets messy, finding the truth from the liars, finding the wounds that don’t bleed, the ones that fester silently or leave white scars in their words.” Bull jabs a clawed finger into his own palm to punctuate his words. If he could get Thom to filter through No One’s lies, and then pull them from him it would make his job a lot easier. “You thinking about what No One has told you?”

“A bit.”

“Well, Orlesians like to pride themselves as the best liars, that usually makes them the worst.” He snorts at Thom’s reaction, “oh, yes, we know he’s Orlesian.”

“ _We?_ ” Thom asks, worried about what else they might know. Bull thumbs at Goddard standing watch with his sword in hand. His shield arm is useless for the moment, as is his shield. He keeps the injured limb curled against his clothed chest, knowing he can fight without it, but knowing that it would be best to avoid stressing his arm. Closing rifts might be more of an issue until it heals. “So, you don’t think he’s lying then?” He says, trying to pull away from the knowledge of him being Orlesian. It’s not too much of a jump to figure out chevalier from that.

“To you? No.” Bull shakes his head and watches the emotions swim across Thom’s face. Fear, anxiety, worry, longing, sorrow. “Whatever it is must be bad, I can see that on your face.”

“Fuck off.” Thom laughs, wincing as another painful spike travels around his skull. The incoming scouts would have potions on them, and if not, they knew of several elfroot stalks that had taken root around a few of their encampments. It wouldn’t be too long before someone could brew up a medicinal tea or something else that tastes just as foul.

“Hey, I can’t just switch it off.” Bull grins.

“The scouts are here, is Dorian awake yet?” Goddard calls over, walking with the barest hint of a limp. He uses his sheathed sword to help him balance, looking every bit the elderly man that he was. Seventy-three, Thom thinks, he was lucky to have lived so long. All of them were covered in scrapes and flowering bruises, their armour and clothing had been thick enough to take most of the beating, but they weren’t immortal by any means.

All of their injuries would be checked over, inspected for little shards of red. It was only by their skill and the Maker’s grace that none of them had contracted the infection. They didn’t know much about the substance yet, Dagna’s research and Bianca’s untimely confession had done much to further their progress, but there was knowledge unknown. Goddard had made no secret about wishing to cure the ailment, and nobody had the heart to deny him, not after news of his youngest son was made public.

“Come on, Kadan.” Bull whispers, gently pulling Dorian from Thom’s side and picking him up. He winces at the weight on his recently fixed shoulder, but it’s worth it knowing the mage will soon be back to his normal self. “They’ll have lyrium with them.” The Herald takes a seat beside Thom, groaning as the weight is lifted from his injured leg, and leaning back on his hands. It’s only then that he figures out he’s being babied by the other three men, his injuries weren’t that bad, were they? Ah, head wound, he thinks solemnly.

Caldwell had eventually managed to find time for a quick drink with No One. Between the soldier training and his rounds delivering messages, it was hard for the young man to get a moment to himself. But it was something that he had signed up for, and it wasn’t something he hadn’t chosen to do, so he was unlikely to complain and if he did nobody would be to blame but himself. No One could see the hours were wearing down the young man, but he kept a grin on his face and a familiar red tinge to his cheeks. Being a soldier was hard work, always fighting for those who were supposedly better than you. It didn’t sit right with him, but it wasn’t his choice to make. He had once told Caldwell to find a soldier to tutor him, there were hundreds within the fortress, though he hadn’t ever expected anything to come of it.

He spoke happily about the new training he’s been through, rambling on about sword movements and shield positions, pincer tactics and funnelling the enemy. It reminds him of his days excited to be a chevalier, no matter how he was coerced into it, it had once brought him such passionate enjoyment. His evident joy makes No One wonder whether he had been this entranced by the heroic aspect of being a chevalier, it makes him wonder why he ever thought of them as heroes in the first place.

All of the things that Andrastopher had said before swam through the front of his mind. It didn’t matter what Caldwell spoke about, the only thing that No One could think about was that he was the last. He didn’t seem to notice anything was wrong with him, and he was happy enough to slip between their table and Cabot for more drinks. No One explained how he had lost his dagger on his travels, honestly for once, just so there wouldn’t be any silence between them. It wasn’t an issue, Caldwell had gotten another one anyway, and he raised a drink in respect of the body that No One couldn’t save.

No One drank whiskey, the burning peach flavour warming his gut from the inside out. It washed away the chill he had brought back from travelling such a long way, and it made him feel lighter for all the ills he thought of. Caldwell had spent the first half of their night drinking ale, and gave up and switched to whatever No One was having because it was a simpler order. Falsely thanking him for paying for it all when it was really racking up Thom’s tab. Still he hadn’t wanted to spoil the young man’s mood.

Clan Maelarith was forgotten, drowned with his other sorrows and the night was lost to half drunken jokes and rich peach flavoured whiskey. The words lingered in the back of No One’s mind, alongside all of the other issues he was currently avoiding or putting off until he could deal with them at a later date. It wasn’t something to bring up at a night in the tavern.

They drank until Cabot rang the first closing bell, which usually gave them an hour before they were properly forced out. Caldwell was already slipping from his seat, flushed with whiskey and grinning from ear to ear. No One wasn’t even halfway there, and he felt bad for letting the elf get in such a state, knowing he had training at sunrise. But there was little to a soldier’s life if they haven’t once been running drills with a throbbing hangover.

The morning would be rough, but experience working through pain was always good training. He remembers the tightened belts and the reversed studded leather he and the other chevaliers would train with, prickling your skin and restricting blood flow and how much air you could breathe. Torturous, it was. But it worked in his favour, almost everything became easier to endure, and he couldn’t say without it whether he would still be alive today.

“Come on, kid.” No One snorts, slipping an arm around his chest, pulling him from the tavern with a song lingering in his throat. He throws one of the blankets he had taken to wearing over his head before they step outside, the Spymaster seemed to have kept hold of his usual druffalo covering, and so he was left with a basic woven thing instead. The fresher air hits them harshly, stumbling into the snow with laughter. It makes No One think of the time he had first kissed Thom, drunk and staggering, all wet lips and clasping hands. The memory brings a smile to his lips and sorrow to his gut, it had been a month since he had seen him. Staying in his bed had done something to ease the absence, but it wasn’t anything to compared to having Thom beside him.

“I’m Caldwell,” He says softly, clinging to No One’s shirt and stopping them both, “and you’re filthy.” They’re words that No One had heard before, with Caldwell in his lap and Thom looking on at them both. It brings him out of his fonder memories, throwing him into the present with a dangerous speed.

“No, no I’m not.” He whispers, grabbing for the hands clasping his face and pulling them away. Caldwell meant to kiss him, standing on unsteady tiptoes with whiskey scented breath. At the very least No One had bathed and shaved recently, and there was his keen interest in Thom, who the elf already knew all about. Why he thought to make a move on him now was beyond him, he could only imagine it was the amount of drink he had consumed. The young elf didn’t seem the type to do something like this sober.

“Come on, Wystan.” He begs, nosing at the underside of his stubbled jaw. It was something that Caldwell had found himself enjoying, the hair that grew on humans in places it was absent in elves. The fact hadn’t ever been explained to him, it had just always been as such. But the feeling of those tiny hairs which smattered chests, when they ran beneath his fingers, curling and pricking him with the pressure.

The false name crawls under No One’s skin, he and Caldwell were friends, he shouldn’t have to lie to him about that. He could be No One to him, there’s nothing in that, Wystan has been a name plucked from mid-air. He feels guilty and putrid. They were friends, and this shouldn’t be happening. Caldwell tries to kiss him again, his tongue flat against No One’s neck.

“No, Caldwell, let me just get you to bed.” No One dips to throw him over his shoulders before he catches sight of the Warden Commander in his room. His lengthy hair loosened by the breeze and being brushed ever so carefully as it hangs from the open window he sat beside. For a moment he thinks that Cousland intends to say something but he simply returns back inside, and for reasons unknown No One thinks he’s just lost at whatever game they were playing. It instils a panic within his gut and he quickly tosses the elf upon himself to carry him. In any other setting this might be romantic. A lover over one shoulder with the world knowing that they were both heading to bed. Except the young elf wasn’t his lover, and he only wanted the man to sleep off the peach whiskey. Once again hoping they would both forget another awful night.

“Yes.” Caldwell sings, his hands drumming across No One’s lower back and kicking his legs.

“ _No_.”

Goddard informs them that they’ll be making the return journey to Skyhold within the fortnight. His broken wrist leaves him unable to do much in the way of fighting, and many of the mages are too unsure to fix the bones so close to the Anchor. Those that are willing to try, well, Goddard simply seems unsure of letting them. The mark had been studied by many, and despite what they now knew of its elven origins, there wasn’t much else to go on. They couldn’t ask anyone outside of their inner circle about it either; everyone in Thedas thought it to be a boon from Andraste. Goddard’s piousness hadn’t done anything to stop those rumours, rather the opposite in fact. Even after the revelation in the Fade he was unable to tell anyone about the mark’s origins, it could crumble the Inquisition’s legitimacy.

It would give them the time to rest up, and to bring Sahrnia to a better state than it was in now. There was little they could do about the wellbeing of the villagers in such a short space of time, but they could at least try to take them all home and have them fed. The matter of the Mayor, Mistress Poulin, was something else to consider, and when Goddard was broached about it he said he already knew what his decision would be. He had already had enough time to think on it, and he had seen the damage she had caused with her missteps. Her judgement would be harsh, but he would not see Sahrnia suffer any longer.

Thom manages to force down a few foul tasting elfroot brews. It was possible to take them with sugar or honey, but the healer had made them strong to take care of any unwanted side effects his bash to the head may have caused. Dorian had lost the sallow colour of his skin after taking a few measured lyrium potions, denying that he had fallen asleep on Thom earlier and protesting The Iron Bull’s laughter. He thinks the pair make an odd sight; the Tevinter magister and the Ben-Hassrath Qunari. But he can’t deny, especially with the gentleness that he had seen from Bull earlier, that they make a rather good couple. It almost makes him jealous.

No One was absent from Skyhold, he wouldn’t take it on word that the man was dead, and Thom could do naught but think about it as he lay beside the empty cots. After a night he would be cleared for duty again, but he was under a strict vigil watch, more so for being a close companion of the Inquisitor. There was little threat for him to fight at any rate; what little remained of the Red Templar force scattered or fled entirely, and for what Inquisition scouts had noted, the Dalish would pick them off in the snows.

It had brought Goddard to concern about their current standing. The clan, though they had been seen, had not made any attempt to speak with the Inquisition, and they had no idea how to approach them in return and even if they shoul.  The Herald worried about his standing with the Dalish, now that they probably knew of his bastard there would be an opinion amongst them, and it might not be the best of reputations to have. Still, whilst they had not made peace, they had not attacked either, and for what it was worth they did seem to be fighting against the Red Templars. But they were human all the same. He wonders for a moment whether they’re bandits or just a clan waiting to pass through; the one they had seen wore the pelt of a great bear across their shoulders, it spoke strength beyond that of words.

Goddard knew very little of the Dalish language, any he had learnt had been from over twenty years ago. If they were forced to talk he would have a distinct disadvantage, though his stomach would not settle until he knew of their intentions. No doubt they were as curious as he as to what the others were doing here.

Thom rolls the small stone between his fingers, watching it leave pale dust across the leather of his gloves. Wondering what he could have done to make it so that the man would have stayed. If he had been more distinct in his trust, if he had tried harder in his efforts to break down his walls. He hoped, sincerely, that there was a kinder explanation to all this, and although he knew that all of his thoughts were grown from a single action, he could not stop them.

There had been too many times in war whence people hadn’t returned home, and Thom had seen the faces of grieving families and friends. But that thought only breeds more. He doesn’t know No One’s name, if the man had died he couldn’t tell anyone. The only names he knew were that of his brother Armel and his uncle Florent, and the former had only been a slip of No One’s tongue, an accidental revelation. Thom didn’t have the resources to search endlessly for a single pair of men, with no knowledge of them or even if they were alive.

His fingers still with a thought, the stone held aloft and the dust pale in the candlelight. How many men crafted these? There couldn’t be that many, Thom hadn’t come across it before, and most who had seen the small stone hadn’t any idea what it was. If it was a case of following him, or finding out what had happened, these stones would lead the way.

“Still mulling over it, Thom?” Goddard hums interrupting his thoughts. He walked with less of a notable limp, but still with his hand curled safely against his chest. The fracture was worse than he had originally let on, his forearm had been mostly crushed between the curve of his breastplate and his shield, it had protected his ribs as intended but his arm was at the mercy of the Maker. Due to the spreading numbness that he had felt in his fingers the healer had forced him to let a mage try to fix it.

The Anchor had burned and tortured him until the mage had stopped; happy to tell him that his bones had been set as best as they could be. His fingers regained their touch within seconds, even if it came as a prickling sensation, it was greatly appreciated. The healer had ordered him to take elfroot upon the hour, and had written up a recipe for fracture powder to be taken daily. Goddard had sent a copy of the list by crow, along with the intentions to return soon.

“Bull told me about the letter, I thought we might have fallen out again and that was the cause of your mood.” He gestures to the seat beside Thom’s cot, and sits with permission.

“No, my Lord.” Thom says sitting up, wondering whether or not it was better to remained tight-lipped about the situation. Goddard had already threatened No One over the matter of his son, and Thom wasn’t likely to bring up either of those topics in the temperament he was in. At least he could believe Lei was back at Skyhold, but that would be more under the influence of the Warden Commander than of his own.

“ _Goddard_ , please, you only call me my Lord when you’re, well, like this.” He laughs gently, wincing at the shudder in his ribs. There had been too many people calling him lord today. Goddard took it as a good sign, there was cause for worry when healers forgot official titles in favour of doing their job.

“I’m worried about him.” He admits.

“I know,” Goddard says, sighing deeply, the kind of sigh that comes with the beginning of a long story, before continuing, “when I first married Yetta we spoke only through letters, for years in fact. Most of our marriage is written down.”

“Truly?”

“Hm, it was an arranged marriage and she tried to run away the night before we wed. I didn’t blame her, from what she knew I was hardly the best man to be with.” Goddard has to chuckle at the memory, she was marrying an old soldier who had originally been intended for her oldest sister, and with such rumours about his involvement with men, he wasn’t exactly a dream husband. Thom snorts with laughter before he could stop himself, he had been the night’s entertainment for many panicking soon to be brides. “But, I remember one night I had expected a letter as they came routinely, she has always been very punctual with her letters you see even amidst such heavy warfare, but there was nothing.”

“Common is it?” Thom says. He would beg for any true reason for No One’s lack of letters, as long as the man was safe or rescuable. If he could know that his letter had just been dropped or misplaced it would ease his worry immeasurably.

“I was entrenched with my men, some few years into my marriage, and we had just lost thousands to Prince Maric and his army. I feared only for my wife. Selfish really, but it was the thought of leaving her widowed what made me rally for our surrender.” Goddard cannot remember it with fondness, though he knows that his actions that day had saved the lives of many. Even if he had been forced to promise the next thirty-four years of his life in service to Ferelden, it would have been longer if his father hadn’t of died and left him to rule the bannorn. King Alistair had pardoned him of his crimes several years earlier than what Goddard had originally agreed to with Maric. Queen Anora had protested, but Alistair vouched for his honour on behalf of an unnamed fellow Grey Warden.

“The point is, I know what it is you’re going through; absent letters lead to rambling and more than likely untrue thoughts.” Goddard sighed, reaching across to pat Thom’s hand gently. “I threw myself upon the mercy of Prince Maric, unarmed and unarmoured, because I could only think of abandoning the war to make sure she was well.” Thom wonders if the Inquisitor would have deserted the war if things hadn’t gone the way they had. But it’s a souring thought, and he knows that Goddard is a better man than him for staying true to his path. It’s admirable, and it’s something for Thom to learn.

“This isn’t the same, Luin-” He bites his tongue when Goddard sends him a frown at the name, the disappointment is too clear in his face, “ _No One_ isn’t my wife, and we’re not losing a war.” He says it with confidence, after the battles won in the Emprise, not discounting many other places in Thedas, they were indisputably winning back land ravaged by the Red Templars. Perhaps they had lost Corypheus, but in time they would find him again, and they would defeat him.

“Ah, but the heart wants and the battles rage on.” He grins and presses a hand to his chest, mimicking a wounded lover.

“Poetic.” Thom laughs, thankful for the turn in the Inquisitor’s mood.

“ _War does not wait for the love of men_ ; is far more poetic.” Goddard offers a sad smile at the words; too often does he think of Florent lately. “But I didn’t come to talk of poetry, or letters, or wars of the last age. I came to ask after your head.”

“I’ve felt worse.” He says strongly.

“You’ve felt better.” Goddard smiles knowingly, patting Thom’s hand once more and standing to leave. “I’m able to lend an ear if you wish to talk, it would pleasantly distract me from the thought of my sister turning up at Skyhold unannounced.” He offers a nod, mumbling about how he’ll have to deal with his brother-by-law’s misplaced ego and constant wobbling chin. Goddard doesn’t try to hide his slight limp until he steps from the tent, leaving Thom with the healer assigned to stand vigil for the night. The stone stays within his hand before the healer tells him he can get a few hours of sleep before he needs to be woken up again, then it is placed safely back within his coat.

He feels much lighter after his words with the Inquisitor; there’s a thousand more light-hearted explanations for the lack of response than anything which incites sorrow. Whatever the case may be with the blonde, Thom would find out within a few weeks when they returned to the mountain fortress. It would be an agonising wait, but the days would pass, and he would see him eventually. He would kiss him this time, he would pull him against himself and seek out that odd mix of whiskey and lyrium, of wine and iron. Thom wonders whether it would be too obvious to try and dismiss the healer for a self-serving fumble.

No One stares at the ceiling of Thom’s room, willing sleep to elude him for another night. He hadn’t slept since he had returned to Skyhold, too afraid of finding the Revenant in his dreams. Yet each blink became a second longer than the last, until he opened his eyes to the Orlesian Alienage, and the beast that hounded him. Another night of endless running, pursued by silence and enveloped in terror. The Revenant must know what it was doing, circling like a northern vulture, waiting until No One collapsed in exhaustion. Yet when that time came it merely watched him lay there, panting in agony, sweating through the fabric of Thom’s shirt.

“Hamin, Da’fen.” It hissed, wind forced out through molten teeth. Iron poured from it’s mouth like saliva, dripping over it’s stone clad chest and into the dirt at it’s feet. The words echoed in No One’s mind over and over, endlessly singing to him and twisting within his lungs.

“No.” He grunted, fingers clutching in the dirt to pull him away from the beast. His limbs burned with exotic fires, his nails breaking in the soil, he felt chains curling around his ankles. “No.” He hissed again, to sleep now was to die, and he hadn’t come this far to let some demon take over his mind. “ _No_.” He had things to fight for, things to live for, people to live for. No One flips himself over and kicks at the face of the Revenant, the iron dripping from it’s teeth seers his soles but he grunts through the pain; freeing himself from his malformed hands.

There was a fight in him yet, despite everything he pushed through the pain. A final use for all those years of chevalier training. But his lungs crumbled to dust within his chest and his throat dried with every breath. He had suffered worse, every month he would suffer with such crippling agony, this was nothing. No One got to his feet with a stumbling grace, clutching at walls and fencing to keep him upright.

“Rest,” He scoffs sarcastically, mimicking the demon in his native tongue, “who’s it calling Little Wolf anyway?” The buildings stretched on endlessly, too big to truly be the alienage in Val Royeaux, and it’s that thought which kept him from stopping. None of this was real. In the waking world he slept in Thom’s bed, in Thom’s shirt, in Thom’s chamber. He was safe there, and he wouldn’t let some Dalish-tongued bastard demon take that away from him. No One rests against one of the many, many buildings, panting heavily and numbing from the waist down.

“Tel’renan fenim, vora’sa san vora’eth, Da’fen.” It whispers from behind No One, the voice burning through his legs and up towards his neck. He can feel the molten iron dripping onto his shoulders, burning through Thom’s shirt and fusing the fabric to his skin. No One grits through the pain and forces his eyes to open, the mangled hands under heavy armour surround him, trapping him once more. He bit out his wordless curses, pressing himself against the cooling stones of the building he leant on to quell the burning. No One blinks hard, crying out as the iron burns through his skin and down to his bones.

He awakens pressed against the wall inside of Thom’s room. There’s a moment of confusion which grips him at the sudden change of environment, he fears the Revenant still behind him, and the iron in his lungs. No One steps back slowly, the numbness from his legs prickling at his skin; there’s nothing behind him save for a mess of sheets torn from the bed. Thom’s shirt lacks the singed holes and is only damp with his own sweat. With a sigh of exasperated relief, he sinks to the floor, pulling the shirt up to his face and crying out in measured puffs of breath.

“Shit.” No One hisses. Ser Ancel had ruined him, somehow, whatever he had done. Fuck him, and fuck the Piss Merchant, fuck them all. No One runs his hands through his hair and it tangles within his fingers, he tugs at it unpleasantly before letting it sit in knots. These nightmares weren’t worth information on Cousland. It’s a shuddering thought to know he hasn’t yet paid in full, and he was at complete mercy of the Piss Monger once more.

No One stands begrudgingly, picking up the sheets as he went and throwing them onto the bed in a bundle. He could sort that out later, for now he wanted to bathe the nightmare from his skin, and to fill his mind with thoughts of Thom.

The bathhouse is full of soldiers from the morning shift and late rising pilgrims. No One slips in with them easily, pilfering soap and a horsehair brush as he circles the large carved pools, making his way to an emptier space and slipping into the water. If he had the constitution he could have hauled buckets up to Thom’s personal bathing room and washed in there, but that would require undue effort.

Bathhouses could be pools of gossip if you listened closely enough. No One puts it down to the fact that naked people talk more for whatever reason that was, it’s the same in brothels, except he was less likely to be removed from a brothel than he was a bathhouse. Or, he used to be, he bathed more often nowadays. No One sinks further into the water, levelling it with his chin and watching the ripples spread from his body.

People still spoke about Emperor Gaspard’s engagement to an unnamed woman, each of them trying to guess who he could possibly choose, No One paid little attention to those conversations. More spoke about the Inquisitor’s bastard, his name fresh off of many tongues now he had openly allied with the Warden Commander. No One didn’t much care about either. His thoughts, no matter how he tried, were encompassed by the face of that Revenant. He had never read too much on the details of demons, he only knew that they were mostly evil and it was rare to meet a spirit in good faith. Revenants, he remembered, were corpses of a kind. The threat of them made battlefields all the more dangerous, and despite the wars that would rage, people would often try to avoid areas where the Veil was thin. To see a brother-in-arms rise up after death was a trying thing. No One bolts upright in the water, disturbing those nearest to him but hardly caring.

“Corpses,” He whispers as he climbs from the bathing pool, “it’s a _corpse_.” No One ties the towel at his waist and abandons his stolen items, a newfound logic at the forefront of his mind. He can’t be possessed by a corpse in the Fade because there were no corpses in the Fade.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Hamin, Da'fen." : Rest, Little Wolf.  
> "Tel’renan fenim, vora’sa san vora’eth, Da’fen" : No voice [of] fear, we are one and we are safe, Little Wolf.
> 
> (I apologise because my Dalish is just mashed together awkwardly, though it's the best I can do.)


	37. Home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: This chapter alludes to past racism.

As a child No One had been told he had the fingers of a pianist, long and thin, able to reach the keys much shorter fingers wouldn’t. Of course, a less than savoury character had once suggested whilst yes, he did have fingers capable of playing pianos and organs and such, he had the perfect fingers for pilfering things that weren’t his. He had only practiced the latter a few times in his youth; deciding a rap on the knuckles wasn’t worth it, and that the former was far more rewarding.

Music was something he could readily control. The tempo, the tune, the pitch and pace, with his fingers he could craft melodies worthy of the Maker. He hadn’t ever been one to write such symphonies, most of what he learnt were the songs that the chantry would play during festivals and such. Still Brother Eustace, the _real_ Brother Eustace, complimented him on the minor songs that he would create whilst waiting for something else to play. He had filled his head with fantasies of becoming the best composer in Orlais, nay, in the entirety of Thedas. Pickpocketing on the other hand was always unknown, there was never a guarantee of anything worthy.

But in these past years he had trained himself to be a pickpocket, granted he usually got more than a rap on the knuckles, but it paid off in the end. As such, No One had decided, he wouldn’t approach the spymaster for his things. Not without trying to steal them back first, or getting someone else to do it for him. He had heard such tales of the woman over the years, many of them spoke of her ruthlessness, and made her seem more than the chantry sister she was said to have been. Which led him to this very moment, sitting uncomfortably within Cousland’s tavern room, and trying his very best to swallow certain things that came to mind.

The expanse of red ink etched into his skin that was on display sang of the blood he had spilled. Shirtless, he sits there, with tattoos crawling over his body. Large blocked shapes that travel from the tips of his fingers, the length of his arms, curling into his family’s heraldry that sprawls upon his back. No One scratches the base of his neck in memory of his own, feeling the rippled sea of scarred skin there. His father had been furious when he had seen it. No One’s only excuse was that it made him identifiable, should anything ever happen to him. Fat lot of good that would do him now.

“She’s a fanatic, and most of those tales are entirely absurd.” Andrastopher said dryly, concentrating on fixing a pair of splinted gloves. No One hadn’t seen many a man who wore them, but he knew what they were for. After so many years on the battlefield joints would begin to wear down, inflamed and damaged over such time it was rare that a healer could fix them. Nightly splints were usually the best form of relief, some even incorporated them into their leather armour.

“You know her then? _Personally_?” No One says, unable to help the suggestive lilt that had crept into his voice. Sex was always a good way to a bad ending, even if they hadn’t got that far; scorned affection always left a wound for the world to see.

“We met in Lothering some years ago. She told me the Maker had guided us together for this journey; the Maker had not put me through such an ordeal to wind up fighting alongside a mad woman who fancies herself the Hand of the Maker, never mind Hand of the Divine.” Andrastopher can remember fighting in the tavern back then; the fearful faces as people scattered to the walls to avoid their weapons. More so he can remember the feeling of unspoken loyalty when the guardsmen told him that the villagers of Lothering had kept quiet about that tall, scarred man, because he had been the one to remove the so-called toll collectors from the broken highway. “But no, I do not know her _personally_.”

He had only met her twice in Lothering, once in the tavern, and the second time she waited beside the Imperial Highway, convinced she had to go with him. She spoke of dreams and decaying rosebushes, and it had done nothing but sour his gut. He went along with the lie nowadays, though only when it suited him, claiming the Maker had guided his path. But it had been Duncan who had chosen him, just as he had chosen Dagrin, Knox, Pyrsav, and all of the other Wardens he had inducted into the order. Lei, and a few others soon to be amongst them, and he could say that only the teachings of Koslun guided his actions.

“Can you get your paramour to fetch me my things then?” No One sniffs, leaning back onto the windows and glancing down at the courtyard below. The soldiers were finalising their morning session, for a moment he wonders if Caldwell is amongst them. Last night had been fun, until it got wildly uncomfortable, with both Caldwell’s attempts at seduction and the nightmare he had suffered.

“No.” Andrastopher says, examining the new stitches upon his glove, they would hold well.

“No?”

“No.” He repeats sterner this time.

“Is there a reason?” No One pulls his attention back to the Warden Commander. He knew it was a wild stab to try and get the old bastard to help him, but he held more power and sway within Skyhold. It would be far easier for him to fetch No One’s belongings than for No One to do it himself. He also didn’t like the idea of going up against the Inquisition’s spymaster; said to be almost Qunari in her interrogations. It wasn’t beyond him to ask things of a person he loathed, after all he was Orlesian and had little to spare in the way of dignity.

“I’ve no need to assist you, Chevalier.” He states plainly, pondering for a moment before he turns to the other man. “Unless, of course, you tell me what all those books were for.”

“Wiping my-”

“Very specific titles,” Andrastopher cuts off his vulgar words with a swipe of his hand, “if you needed paper there’s a few dozen copies of Varric’s drivel lying around.”

“I have nightmares,” No One admits, papering over the real reason with a second truth, “I’m trying to distract myself with new things before I sleep.” The suspicions he had before of the Warden Commander letting himself into his home were just now confirmed. How else could he have known about the books, and to guess at their significance, it made him nervous. No One remembers them with ease, words about heroes and the Dalish, it spoke more than he was willing to admit.

“You have my sympathy, I have a recipe for a sleeping draught that might help.” He says it without any malice in his voice, and No One can’t tell if the man is being truthful or just poking fun at him. Andrastopher pulls out a small vial of ink and a parcel full of blank vellum. Unrolling one he carefully begins to write the ingredients from memory, and instructions on how to make it. He is left handed, No One spies, the man’s hand hovering above the wet ink so as not to smudge it unwillingly.

“You want to help me now?” No One snorts, his distrust evident enough across his features.

“I want you awake and concentrating on the things I have asked you to do.” Andrastopher chastises, sketching for a moment the shape of the bottle that the concoction must be kept in. Something about the potency of the fumes from what No One could see. “I could always ask another to keep an eye on the witch’s boy.” The threat didn’t need to be explained, No One understood it well enough. There was a replacement for him at a moment’s notice, and it worried him with how much the Warden Commander might know about other people.

But it wasn’t just that, it was the ever-present reminder of how far Cousland’s influence stretched. Whilst it was true that he had few friends within the fortress, probably no more than No One did himself, he seemed to be excelling in finding out information. The only kind of people that could do that sort of thing were usually Orlesian bards, and just for a moment a thought flickers in his mind. How could he tell? This bastard Cousland, who as far as No One knew, was just a posh tot from Highever, had somehow seen the intricacies of an elite Orlesian order within him in a few fighting minutes.

“Ever been to Orlais?” No One asks flippantly, sagging upon his seat, and trying to make his questions come across as basic curiosity.

“My ex-wife is Orlesian. Why?” Andrastopher says. It doesn’t really answer the question, but he’s hardly likely to reel off his entire life story to someone like Chevalier.

He remembers Annette fondly, as uninterested in women as he was, she was entirely understanding of their situation. She had soon remarried after they had separated, which hadn’t been surprising; she had intelligence upon beauty upon intelligence and so forth. Whilst he wrote to her, he hadn’t gone to visit. The blight had started within months of them splitting up, and he was reluctant to let her see him so tainted. His was also ashamed of how little he had spent in Maxence’s life; things would have been different if he had an influence. Not necessarily better by any means.

Annette and he had been the closest of friends in their youth, which had prompted the summer betrothal, though this was far before Ferelden regained a Theirin monarchy and they had eventually left for Orlais for her safety. It was just as well; people could stand one Cousland boy marrying a foreigner, but both of them? It cast suspicions on the entire family and their loyalty to Ferelden. The nobles preferred Oriana over Annette, but nobody was idiotic enough to think that didn’t have something to do with her heritage and ancestors. _Bastards_.

Of course, now he had an Antivan lover of more than a decade, who was both elven, male, and had an apparent Dalish heritage. Practically a heathen according to some of the braver nobles. Fergus had begun to court a widowed Nevarran noblewoman who he had met on his travels. Lovely woman as far as he could remember, had two daughters and expressed a desire in having a third child with him should they ever marry.

The Moirierre’s; Annette’s half of their family, had legally brought land that had been allegedly stolen from Ferelden nobles under King Meghren’s order. After a few years of turmoil, they sold it back and left to return home; Andrastopher going with them. It gave him the opportunity to study in the rich universities Orlais, finding a love for language and art. Subjects he can rarely go back to without thought of warmongering. The languages allowed him to spy on others, to read documents that weren’t intended for his eyes, and his art was simple notes on herbs and roots and the tainted darkspawn beasts. The university had served him well, though not as he had originally intended it do. He had made his parents proud with his studies, and had graced Castle Cousland with rich, vibrant paintings. All of them now absent piles of ash.

“Just curious as to whether you played a blinding bluff or you knew what I was.” No One says, shrugging it off. It would be to strange for the Warden Commander to be an Orlesian bard, yet undeniably fitting, nobody would have suspected him of betraying the homeland he had fought so hard for.

“I’m a well-travelled man of more than fifty years.” No One thought he looked older, with sickly skin of a desaturated tone, and blackened rings beneath his eyes.

“With an _ex_ -wife, I bet you enjoyed the chevaliers more than you’d care to admit.” He can’t resist the jab when he takes the slip of vellum, he doesn’t read it, he’s hardly going to use something from a man who’s blackmailing him.

“I’ve told you before, I don’t stray.”

“You,” No One has to bite his tongue in disbelief, “ _you_ don’t stray? You’re nipping at the heels of that scout.”

“I’ll have your things fetched from that spymaster,” Andrastopher says quickly, “so long as you keep quiet about myself and Oscar.” No One offers a self-satisfied nod as he leaves, feeling slightly stupid after going to all that trouble to arrange a Green-Eyed Boy when he could have just waved an affair in his face.

Andrastopher rolls out his shoulders when he’s sure that he won’t be disturbed; things were going well. Oscar, the scout with a nervous chatter, to which he fills his silences with stories and reveals far more than he knows about certain subjects. Most of them being about the Inquisition, and with his proximity to Leliana, he was definitely learning far more than he could any other way. The only issue he posed was that he could not seduce both him and Lady Montilyet. She had been easy to flatter, easier to distract whilst he read snippets of private letters. That’s how he had found out about Caldwell, putting the knowledge of that with what Gheyna had once told him about her brother was easy enough. That had only been one small thing as such.

He knew what game he was playing, and he knew that Leliana was watching him meticulously. Andrastopher was dancing too close to the metaphorical bear, yet he enjoyed the danger, a little too much to be in line with the Qun. But he couldn’t help himself. Andrastopher didn’t intend to go through with any of it, he and Zevran had made promises to each other, promises that he held dearly. It didn’t matter what the Qun had taught him in regards to lovers, Zevran was his, and he was Zevran’s.

Playing these games stopped him from thinking about certain events of the past. Certain events which found themselves in Skyhold’s gardens more often than not, certain events called Kieran. Nobody had asked him whether or not he had a relation to the young man, and it was far too easy to pin it on the dead Grey Warden who just happened to be within the vicinity at the conception. He could have chosen Riordan, but he wasn’t as notable as the Hero of River Dane. It was fair, though cruel, to admit many could deny Riordan’s existence, and thus cast doubt upon Andrastopher himself. Something he thoroughly intended to avoid.

Alistair, the coward, hadn’t even been there. He spoke often of loyalty and bravery, and when it came down to it he had hidden behind the golden throne Andrastopher had gifted to him. Queen Anora had been there, making speeches beside him. She had been escorted safely away soon after, but she had been there. He clears his head with a deep breath, there was little time to be maudlin, he had strings to pull.

In the Emprise du Lion, after the few days returning back to the village of Sahrnia, Thom had entirely recovered from his injuries. Save for the murky mass of discoloured skin which patterned his forehead, and a lingering scab which he picked at enough to be chastised for it. Though his nerves had begun to settle over No One’s whereabouts, telling himself that it’s far more likely for the letter to be lost than the man would be. And, he thought, No One was a chevalier. He might have deserted the order but his wits and fighting skills hadn’t deserted him. Still, even if he could settle those nerves, thoughts of seeing the man back at Skyhold brought another wave of them upon him.

The Dalish that Goddard had previously been so nervous about seeing had eventually engaged the Inquisition, thankfully, not in battle. The one with the great bear pelt had made herself known, declaring that she was an emissary of their Keeper, asking that no scouts intervene on their land. It was an unexpected discussion, but it brought up certain things they had not known about Sahrnia and the Emprise previously.

Firstly, and the most important, was that traders in Sahrnia and some villagers had been against the Dalish living there. Distrusting them to the extent that they had tried to run them away from the village, and when the clan had frightened the assailants off, they had claimed injuries and falsehoods. Secondly, that meats had been stolen from their smokehouse, as had herbs and other such things. A list was offered, hard to read though definitely in Trade. Goddard had promised to reimburse them. Even if it hadn’t been taken by Sahrnia’s residents, the clan had been killing Red Templars for them, and that was worthy of a reward. The action would also bring him favour in regards to future events.

It was strange to see a Dalish clan building more sturdier homes that could not be packed away for when they travelled. Goddard had asked them, politely as he could, as to whether they intended to stay indefinitely. She had laughed at him; their homes may have been tougher but they were no less movable. They didn’t all live in flimsy huts and tents as the humans did whilst travelling.

The Inquisitor had spoken to Mistress Poulin about the accusations, and she hadn’t denied anything. Not the business with the Red Templars, nor hiding the fact that some of the villagers had stolen from the Dalish. She begged that it was all in desperation. The Red Templars gave her less and less coin, and whilst she hadn’t ordered the villagers to steal in order to feed them, she hadn’t condoned it either.

They had no options, she claimed. But it was those words that struck Goddard in his very core. He had heard several people claim it was their only choice over his lifetime, though it has never been as such. There was always more than one option, even if Goddard had the gift of hindsight in those occasions, those choices would still have been known to them back then. They could have chosen to fight, Mistress Poulin had said as much, yet they were only simple villagers. But in her attempt to save some she had reduced many to a slow suffering death, an uneven bargain to which she had lost. As cruel as it was to say, the villagers would have been better to have fought and died honourably, and not given the Red Templars the slaves and living body mass to further their spread of infected lyrium.

It was a mess, and there was no good way to tell the villagers why he had arrested their mayor. In fact, he believed telling them would result in a danger to her life, ending any chance of a true trial. He had sent her away in a supply carriage, to be escorted under armed guard to Skyhold, and immediately put in one of their cells. Sending with them a list of appropriate food stuffs and herbs from the fortress’ gardens. In her place he appointed a temporary Inquisition captain; it was met with unsure opinions. They believed that taking Sahrnia may have been more of a territorial advancement than an act of heroism. But they couldn’t deny that the Herald had saved them. After Mistress Poulin was far enough away, he told them of her actions, and apologised on her behalf.

Thom had been there when he had made the speech to the village, standing beside him as his shield. He did it all remarkably well, and he hadn’t doubted him in his convictions. If the man could talk down a usurped Prince and secure the safety and lives of a few dozen men at the same time, he could handle a few disgruntled villagers. It was far too political for Thom to enjoy it after the fact, and he sought out the outskirts to walk a patrol.

Michel de Chevin still remained within the village. News of Imshael’s death had met him proudly, and though he had wished to be there when the demon was vanquished, it didn’t dampen his spirits at all. He seemed almost nervous to leave the small village, he had been hunting Imshael for years now, and to know that it was all over left him at a loose end.

“Why not join the Inquisition?” Thom offers after hearing of his troubles. They could always use more support and any of it was welcomed, whether it was an extra pair of hands in the washer room or a sword in the field, it didn’t matter who it was so long as they brought something to the order. Not everyone needed to be a strong warrior to help them, and having the Inquisition’s support wasn’t something easily thrown away.

“I fear it mingles too much with the politics I am hoping to avoid.” Michel admits softly. Joining the Inquisition would be an honour, though not necessarily the one he wants, and it was his desire not to be selfish which was causing his indecisiveness. The order hadn’t yet declared for any country, and considering its leader and his advisors were from five different places in Thedas; things were susceptible to rumours. Even allying with Tevinter was an option after they had recruited a magister to their ranks.

“You could just be a soldier, I’m sure the troops would benefit from a chevalier’s training point of view.” He says, wondering whether Goddard would pardon No One if he offered his services as a chevalier. It’s more of a fairy tale idea than anything, but it’s something. The man might live in Skyhold, hopefully he still does, but he doesn’t give a single thing to the Inquisition. If anything, he’s a gift for their whiskey supplier and a burden on Cabot’s casks.

“Like you?” Michel asks, “As unpolitical as you wish to be, you still stood up there with the Herald as he announced why he had taken over the village.”

“Temporarily.” Thom says, slightly put off by Michel’s tone. The Inquisitor wasn’t planning anything like that surely, he was just keeping things in order until Sahrnia could fully recover. Without a mayor it was adamant to keep the village in routine.

“Land advances in war are never temporary, Ser Rainier.” He speaks as if scolding a small child for idle fantasies, war was war, and there were few who would not take advantage of a homestead without a leader.

“We not at war with Sahrnia, or Orlais.” He crosses his arms with a frown pressing into his brow, feeling defensive at such accusations. Not only that the Herald would take advantage of the ravaged village, but that Thom had willingly aided him in doing so. He wouldn’t by any throw, it went against everything he stood for. How ever little his morals were made out to be, he still had them.

“No, but Orlais has a treaty with the nobles of the Free Marches,” Michel says choosing his words carefully, “ _Bann Trevelyan_ has every right to claim the village as his own, he may not own the land outright but with a few moves he will control it entirely.”

“I’ve never heard of this.” He wasn’t a noble, but he was a Free Marcher and a soldier, he wouldn’t know all the ins and outs of treaties but he’d know a gist of most of them. Taking land from the Orlesians in warfare would be something talked about, surely. Even as far away as the countries were, they would still strive to gain landmass.

“It’s an old treaty, mostly forgotten by those foreign to Orlais. It leaves us entirely too open in warfare, how easy it would be to defend us and then gather our profits as spoils of war.”

“Goddard wouldn’t do that. Not after the village has been through so much.”

“I pray you are right. Emperor Gaspard can easily remove him in any case, though denying the Herald of Andraste wouldn’t grant him any favour with the chantry.” Michel shrugs loosely, not that there was much of a chantry to go to at the moment. News about a new Divine was still up in the air, there were several people rumoured to have it, both of whom are in the Inquisition. Yet the Herald of Andraste hadn’t yet given his opinion on the matter, aside from that those two candidates are needed here and Thedas will have to wait or choose someone else. Suffice to say, they’ve waited, and will continue to until the Herald speaks with Andraste’s favour upon his tongue.

“Too political?” Thom quotes with a sniff. It was too easy to believe there was such goodness in people. War tended to bring out the heroes and the cowards, a selflessness that extended into death, a desire to protect others at the cost of your own life. It granted people a reason to their passing, something that many could not afford. It gave them a reason to die.

“I digress,” He laughs, finding his earlier words to have lost their meaning, he cannot complain of politics and then talk about them in length, “how have you been Thom?”

“Well, apart from-” he gestures loosely to his discoloured forehead and offers a loose shrug, “-and yourself?” He unfolds his arms and lets his hands rest of the hilt of his sword, not without brushing the small stone nestled in his pocket first.

“As such. I’m still unsure of which choice to make.”

“Oh?” Thom asks, wondering why he brings up the subject once more. Perhaps he just needed reassuring to make his choice, or for someone to tell him what he wanted was the right decision.

“I said before that I would rather live in Celene’s exile than Gaspard’s pardon. But that was when I had purpose in finding Imshael.” He almost feels guilty for saying it, how easily his honour could be bought with a few fancy words and the offer of shining baubles. But finding Imshael, he had thought that to be a life of work, yet, the Inquisitor had found and killed him within a few weeks of knowing about him. “You’ve offered the Inquisition, yet, I have been offered a place in the Emperor’s personal honour guard.” Being Celene’s champion had been one thing, something of the highest honour. A job which was now unwarranted as the new monarch could defend himself as a chevalier. Nobody could expect better as a soldier than to be part of the honour guard to the Emperor.

“I thought you hated Gaspard.” Thom frowns.

“I apologise if I have given you that impression, he is somewhat of an unknown.” Michel keeps his wording vague enough that it doesn’t need an explanation. “He would reinstate me as a chevalier, and elevate me to one of the most prestige occupations in Orlais. To have such an honour after everything.”

Everything didn’t seem to describe the extent of this accurately. Gaspard would place a half-elf into his order, knowingly and willingly, and would do it without pause. It wasn’t even a play in the grand game from what Michel could see, most of Celene’s uncompromising supporters had been either socially exiled or beheaded for plotting treason. There was little left of them to intimidate by waving around her champion as a trophy. Which meant Gaspard did this because of Michel’s skill and his honour. To waste such a fine chevalier would be a crime.

“You’d want that?” Thom asks. From what No One had told him there was little glory in being a chevalier, and any glory that was given wasn’t so good in the end. It came from the blood of others and the blood of elves. The chevaliers were a gilded shit according to him.

“To be a chevalier again, there is little else to compare to that feeling. It is not pride nor arrogance, it is something else, something in the chest that no words can describe.” Michel stares wistfully into the distance. To him the chevaliers weren’t a gilded shit of any kind, they were his family and his home, and Maker he was sick of being away.

“If it’s what you want.” Thom says.

“You’d make it so simple.” He chuckles.

“I’ve a friend, too afraid to take what he wants, and it breaks his heart.” He bites his tongue in thought, curious as to how much his lungs wants to ramble about the blonde “I want him to have what he needs, to, to, I want him to, I just _want_ him.” Thom pulls a hand through his hair in a slight frustration when the words don’t come.

“He doesn’t sound a friend.” Michel huffs gently, his voice tinged with the frustrated adoration that radiates from the other man. Thom stares for a moment, willing more words to come. He doesn’t feel the need to deny Michel’s words, to lie and tell the world that No One was just a friend and that nothing had gone on between them.

“He’s more than that.” He nods, his voice barely there.

“You needn’t whisper, Thom. We’ve broader minds in Orlais.” Michel steps a fraction closer, his hand laid upon the shoulder plate of Thom’s armour. “But you’ve convinced _me_ , if that’s any consolation, and I do hope your friend finds it that you convince him too.”

“I’m getting there.” He says with a deep inhale, his breath coming out in a plume as he tilts his head back to gaze up at the sky.

“You’ve my faith,” He offers a soft smile, kindness spilling into his features, “and my farewells.”

“You’re leaving?” He turns back to Michel quickly, a brow raised and an inquiring tilt to his head.

“It’s midday, and I can get a few hours of travelling before it is dark.” Michel shrugs taking a step back and looking over the town of Sahrnia. “The Inquisition can do a far better job than I here, and I’ve a monarch to congratulate.”

“Good luck.” Thom offers as the chevalier leaves. Michel offers a wave as he goes, the sound of his footprints fading without protest. He scuffs the snow around his own boots, rocking on the balls of his feet for a moment. It’s hard not to think about what Michel had said of Goddard’s intentions, yet he fees pleasantly warm for helping the man reach a decision. Even if it had already been made by the man already, and all he had needed was a second voice to tell him it wasn’t going to be so dreadful.

Thom can remember how he felt when he had stood in chains in front of the Inquisitor. Such shame and overwhelming guilt, as if the waves of his past threatened to drown him. There was little joy in his sentencing, he had felt even more shamefaced after the fact, knowing that his men had been hanged and he hadn’t had any punishment save for what he had done to himself.

 _Free to atone as the man you are_ ; that’s what Goddard had said to him. As if that didn’t make him feel any more regretful that he was. Michel didn’t seem to bear any of that weight, not anymore, as if Imshael had been the source of his guilt. No One bore weight that would crush Thom, that would crush many a man stronger than him.

It was as if the two chevaliers were on entirely opposite ends of the spectrum. One of whom the chevalier order was everything good and pure in his life, and for the other it had been a reprimanding reminder, a slow spiral that had ripped him from his family. Thom tries to conceive how one thing can be so differently placed in perspective, tries to conceive which man has the better and truer ideal of them.

As Thom returns back to their camp near Sahrnia the Inquisitor explains they’ll begin their journey back to Skyhold the next morning. The engineers had arrived from Orlais to start rebuilding Judicael’s Crossing only a few hours ago, so work should begin and be finished at some point yet unknown. The workers had been entirely vague and he had given up asking questions. One thing they did say was that they had the best magical engineer from one of the finest circles in Orlais working on it, which would reduce the time immeasurably.

Dorian resisted pointing out that they could probably hire a group of Tevinter engineers for far less and the work would have been done a lot quicker and arguably better. Building structures with magic was hardly new to them, even if Orlais was only just beginning to see the benefits of such a thing. It was a progress that nobody had expected to see from one such as Emperor Gaspard.

The thought of being back in Skyhold within a week or so excited Thom almost as much as it terrified him. It would finally give him an answer to whether No One had accepted his offer to stay in the mountain fortress, and it could explain why he hadn’t received a letter. Goddard had clarified to him that he had told the scout not to return to Sahrnia as they would be leaving soon, and it would most likely be a wasted journey. Any letters they received would be held in Skyhold until they got back, and anything urgent could be sent by crow.

Thom had spent most of the night lying awake upon his bedroll, looking at the small stone between his fingertips, barely illuminated in such low light. He would be home soon, and hopefully, back with No One soon.

Andrastopher had eventually pulled through on their agreement; No One’s things were neatly wrapped and tied and left in Thom’s room for him to claim. It was a delight when he came to them one night, feeling overjoyed now he could get out of the clothes he had worn to travel. The druffalo blanket brought him a similar comfort when he draped it across his shoulders, and he was glad to be rid of the dull thing he had been wearing in the place of it. As strange as it seemed it made No One feel as if he was back at home, properly this time, and he couldn’t deny having the things Thom had given him back was brilliant either.

A note had been written to explain the absence of his books, other copies still available in the libraries of Skyhold which No One could easily get himself. The ones he originally had were probably been burnt with their absent pages or the spymaster kept them in case he had written anything in them. He hadn’t, thankfully, and he didn’t need those particular books back anyhow. A pile of letters had been left in the room as well, all addressed to Thom, and left alone for the man to read when he returned. He supposed they weren’t important enough to be forwarded to Sahrnia, the knowledge that his own letter would be travelling to the village gave him a pleasant knot in his chest.

With the few days that had passed since he had threatened the Warden Commander about his lover, the looming nightmare began to creep ever closer. Each night without sleeping was a joy to entertain, but it didn’t sway the fact that No One would have to sleep eventually. It was something that he couldn’t avoid, and all the books on demons and possession that he had read had all been warnings from the chantry. It wasn’t that he didn’t believe their versions of things, it was just too pious for him to take as true fact. As faithful as he was, he could admit the chantry had its faults.

Nothing had helped him so far, and the pile of read books grew in Thom’s room steadily. There had been nothing about revenants in the Fade. He had read of the anatomy of corpses possessed by demons, and how to best combat them; nothing new there. What kind of demons created what kind of corpses had been a helpful fact. The thing that was following him could only be of Pride or Desire, the fact was useful to a degree, but it didn’t give him a reason, nor any evidence of one being drawn into the Fade. With everything that was happening across Thedas now, there’s bound to be something ridiculous and undocumented.

It helped that No One didn’t sleep for days on end, and had several hours more to read than the average man did. This gave him more time to read and more time to think once Skyhold was asleep. After reading through the majority of the books he had taken from the main library, he began to think more about the hidden library that was housed in the mountain fortress. Something he had found when he had been wandering the halls after hearing rumour of it from one of the chantry sisters. This night time period gave him the opportunity to sneak into there, a place full of old tomes and things of magic that should be kept from the public eye.

There was something in there; it thrilled him when he had first picked up the tome. Before he had found that, he had simply memorised a few paragraphs before he would sneak out and return to Thom’s chambers each night. The tome came as no surprise to him that it was Dalish, it was only surprising that by reading the written words aloud that they came to form meaning in his mind. Evidentially whatever had given him the ability to understand the language hadn’t bothered teaching him to read it properly. His tongue stumbled a few times, and there were such words he didn’t understand, yet he struggled through regardless.

The words warned of a harbinger of Falon’din, the _Mirtha’ghila a Falon’din_ , a man of twisted scarred skin, dressed in stone with that of death behind him. In an odd sort of way No One found himself applying his own life to that of the Mirtha’ghila; death seemed to haunt him, and the compulsion to make tiny rounded stones wasn’t there before he was a wolf.

No One read it, almost as if he was compelled to, speaking of the tales of this wicked man who demanded sacrifices to offer to his god. It was there that the comparisons ended, and what had been a mere flight of fancy, had been squashed instantly. The clans, afraid of the advancing forces of a man who commanded death such as he, produced warriors to fight him, warriors who soon fell to his army, and joined them unwillingly. An army of shambling corpses, fanged skeletons, revenants, devouring corpses, all roaming the lands of Thedas.

It wrought death and ruin, yet it was noted that it had only been a problem to the Dalish. No humans had made the attempt to stop the advancing horde. The army vanished in the late Storm age, and the Mirtha’ghila supposedly with them; joining his God at last. The Dalish believed Falon’din had come to claim the lives that had been offered, taking his harbinger with him.

The story had little to do with No One’s current predicament, that much he knows, but it’s the only source he has of something Dalish linked to that Revenant. Yet with a simple glance at the back of the tome, he sees a shadowed figure illuminated from behind by the twin moons of Thedas. Pointed ears, glowing eyes, and twisting spirals from his shoulders, arms outstretched as if to welcome the crowds, and of his fingers; two are absent.

Fear scatters No One’s guts, clambering his spine and curling into his throat. The fingers, he remembers, running through his hair whispering heartfelt goodbyes, almost cooing to him. It was too much of a coincidence. Any number of elves could have those fingers removed, all of this had happened over two hundred years ago, there was no chance that this had any connection to him. But, he thinks with fear, the reign of Mirtha’ghila a Falon’din had lasted over a hundred years before it was decimated. Magic had very little limitation, and if this tome was hidden from the eyes of the masses, then there was a reason for it.

No One had heard the rumours of a demon army under Corypheus’ command, perhaps that is why this tome had been brought here, but things didn’t make sense. If the humans hadn’t known about Mirtha’ghila a Falon’din then how had they come across this tome? The Dalish wouldn’t have offered it willingly if no human had helped their plight, why tell them of such a tragic time at all? He could ask Caldwell about it, if the young man wasn’t avoiding him at all cost.

The tome is wrapped in his druffalo wool blanket and carried back to Thom’s bedchamber, if he could get a clear translation of this it might help him decipher what the void was happening to him. It would be more helpful if he could have that done within the two days he has before he has to sleep. But the tome was large and heavy, it’s pages were fragile and the ink fading. The picture of Mirtha’ghila a Falon’din upon the back hadn’t faded at all, as if a tinge of magic had been placed to keep it there as a reminder. Lest anyone forget about that time.

Whatever the tome said about an army of corpses and demons, it didn’t say anything about wolves or werewolves. For a moment No One had been distracted by a mention of Fen’harel. But what little conscious knowledge he had of the Dalish pantheon, Fen’harel was not a werewolf of any kind, and it was hardly likely that No One would have a connection to two gods. No, it had only been mentioned in passing, as an insult to the Mirtha’ghila; calling him a trickster and a disillusioned zealot.

The best thing he could do was not to wait for an opportunity to have the tome translated into Trade, but to decipher the passages himself. It might lead him astray, he knew many texts had been mistranslated throughout the ages and left people with an unusual understanding of certain things. Mistranslation is the sole argument for whether or not Andraste was truly Fereldan, it was an unspoken argument, but not everyone could accept their most holy icon was once a heathen dog lord. No One scrubbed the thought from his mind, burying the tome under the towels in Thom’s washroom, and setting off to find the oldest Dalish lexicon he could within the Inquisition’s libraries.

In the upper level of the main library, Lei had officially turned down the job offer for being a guard at Skyhold, chewing through his lip as he spoke over it with Lady Leliana. It would have been an honour to have the position, but he felt more inclined to be a Grey Warden, he had spent some years in his youth battling the darkspawn with a pretend Grey Warden order and it simply felt right.

It wasn’t even the heroic tales or songs he had heard about the blight and the few Wardens who saved Thedas. Lei wasn’t the kind of man to seek glory like that. He believed if glory was to be his then he would let it find him, and not rush stupidly into battle on the off chance that he might do something incredible. The feeling of being able to finally pledge himself to something wasn’t anything to sniff at. Throughout his life he hadn’t ever found a place to call home; he was too human for the Dalish, and he was too magical for the humans. Grey Wardens took all sorts, and were proud in a sense of doing such.

“I hope you’ll accept this, my Lady.” Lei says, bowing his head slightly to offer her a folded piece of vellum; an official note to deny the job, and evidence that he had done so.

“If this is what you want I cannot stop you.” Leliana says with a sweetened tone, disappointed that he had already fallen for Andrastopher’s well practiced lies. “But I can warn you; the Warden Commander is well versed in the Grand Game of Orlais, and of political manoeuvres.” She had done her research into the man, forgoing her usual intentions of staying away from a Warden’s past. Thom Rainier had forced her to rethink her view on the order, fearing that someone else may sneak into Skyhold under the pretence of being one of the tainted soldiers.

Some information hadn’t been new to her. She already knew of what had happened during the blight, and partially thanked the Maker for not sending her with him; she would not have condoned half of the things he had done. There were some paths that she could not yet explore, and it would take time before she could do so. Castle Cousland would be a wealth of information, if getting in there wasn’t so awkward. After the massacre the Cousland estates were refortified and now served as imposing war towers, spanning acres of land. They had commissioned some of the best dwarven engineers to work on them, sparing no expense, and even going so far as lining some of the towers with long ranged ballistae. It had been compared to Redcliffe Castle in its ability to withstand attacks.

Some had commented that all of that would have been useless against the Howes, they had attacked from within. All Andrastopher had to offer, as the refortifications were his idea, was that anyone who made that attempt would surely fail. He didn’t mention how or why, just that they would not suffer another attack, and had contingencies in plan for every eventuality. Few had so little grace as to call him paranoid, fewer to do so in his own home.

“The Grey Warden’s aren’t political.” He objects, rehearsing one of the first things that Andrastopher had told him. When he had asked him why he had allied with the Inquisition, he stated that he hadn’t, they had asked for his advice on certain matters and were allowing him to stay as a guest. In no way was Andrastopher a member of the Inquisition. He reminded Lei that it was always best to assume you were either a guest or a prisoner wherever you stayed, it stopped you from bonding with allies when you could only count on those who were of the Grey.

“Something they say when it suits them. We’ve a Grey Warden on the Fereldan throne, and the Couslands now control both Terynirs.” She says. It had been a remarkable turnaround for the order, from being banished to controlling almost all of the landmass of Ferelden in only three decades. The whole thing would have been far more impressive if the order had numbers to match the steps it had taken, they were few and far between. Though there was no doubt that their numbers were swelling, albeit slowly.

“That makes no difference to me.” He shrugs, as far as Lei knew all of that was rightly inherited in accordance to human law.

“It should.” She corrects him, borderline scolding him. “You’re the son of the Herald of Andraste, your voice has weight.”

“And I’m putting it behind the Grey Wardens where it is needed.” Andrastopher had told him of their dwindling numbers, and he had told him of the repercussions of such things. A few Grey Wardens might have ended the blight, but it was small and short in comparison to the others. He had told him there was more to it, yet until Lei was officially a Grey Warden he could not tell him such detail. “My mother is Dalish, and my father has other sons if he wishes for another voice.” The act of Goddard’s rejection still fresh in his mind. He had been spending time with Twyla, getting to know his half-sister and finding that he was rather fond of her. If they could not be siblings, then he hoped they could be dear friends instead.

“Son.” She corrects quickly.

“Pardon?”

“Goddard now has only one trueborn son.” The weight behind her words is heavy, and she speaks quickly to stop Lei from over thinking it. Wakefield had died, yes, but she would not be the one to put it in his head that he was a replacement child. Goddard’s wrath would know no bounds if he ever found out. “As does Andrastopher.”

“I don’t understand where you’re going with this.” Lei says, shifting his weight. It didn’t matter who had however many sons, and there was no law that forced you to be loyal to your birth parents over all else. The implications, from what Lei could gather, were attacking Andrastopher. A man who hadn’t done anything ill towards Lei, and hadn’t warranted such suspicion.

“There’s a young man in the mage tower, his name is Maxence Jean-Andrastophe Willem Cousland. As one of the rebel mages conscripted in Redcliffe he is only one step above being our prisoner.” She explains slowly, going on the describe the boy in minor detail. “He has his father’s height and his ears, though he is dark-skinned and not as antagonistic in his ways. You should meet him, ask him about the Warden Commander.”

“Why?”

“Andrastopher’s son under Goddard’s command, and now Goddard’s son under Andrastopher’s command.”

“I’m not his pawn in this, this is my choice,” He states boldly, his brow twitching into a frown, “and I won’t be _your_ pawn either.” He adds, politely bowing his leave and turning to exit her crook, eager to be away from her and her crows.

“Maxence is a healer, his room is on the second floor.” She calls out to him as he retreats. Lei had little reason to stay after all that, yet Leliana kept his written denial without sending it to Cullen. The young man could still change his mind, and she would keep his options open. If her words had struck his core then he would seek out the young mage, and he would learn far more about Andrastopher Cousland than he could from anyone else.

The only thing that had brought her worry, was not that Andrastopher seemed to have imbedded himself into his mind. But that fact that he seemed so surprised that Leliana would speak badly of him. The Warden Commander had hardly kept his detest of her hidden, but why hadn’t Lei produced some sort of argument fitting with that line? She had only one reason, and that was that she had overplayed her hand and made herself villainous, and Andrastopher hadn’t even been using Lei to play against her at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Mirtha'ghila a Falon'din" : Honour guide of Falon'din
> 
> (I apologise because my Dalish is just mashed together awkwardly, though it's the best I can do.)


	38. More

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: This chapter mentions homophobia, sexism, and minor descriptions of past character death and injury.

Thom had felt like this only a few times in his life; the eve before the Grand Tourney which he wasn’t so well equipped for, the morning of his promotion to captain within the Orlesian army, and the day he found that letter about the planned execution of Mornay. Sheer dread with the barest hints of peace lingering upon it. An odd way to feel, and not particularly pleasant.

He was afraid that No One wouldn’t be waiting at the gates of Skyhold, he was afraid the man would have already fled to northern Thedas. He was afraid that the man would be there and his tongue would get stuck between his teeth and he’d end up babbling like an idiot for lack of anything to say. The latter would be best, he decided. Thom would rather look a fool than to not see No One again. Yet as he approached Skyhold, after shaving a day and a half from their travel time, the feeling grew stronger and unsettled his gut. The motion of his horse didn’t help in the slightest bit.

When they were close enough to the gates of Skyhold Thom peered into the crowd looking for that familiar blonde. He ignored the hands reaching up for the Inquisitor, but his apologetic mumbles still resounded in his ears; Goddard couldn’t control the horse and shake hands whilst one of them was in a sling. Dorian had barked out a laugh, gracefully covering it with a cough, at his newfound problem. The noise distracted Thom, if only for a moment, before he could scan the passing crowds again. There were several blondes, none of them the one he wanted, and his dread started to smother his peace.

The stable hand took the reins from Thom as he dismounted. His actions all automatic as he glanced up to the little nook that No One had lived in; unable to see the old flags and tent coverings that made up the walls. He had gone, truly, Thom’s first assumptions had been correct. Thom hadn’t been enough; he had failed. He traces the small stone he still held in his pocket on a whim; feeling nothing.

He takes his personal items from the saddle, what little remains in the bags will be sorted out by others, and thanks the young stable boy for his work. Thom shrugs the saddle bags over his shoulder, and ignores the look Bull gives him. The Qunari must know, and he’s glad Bull’s not the type to be overt in his pity. He’d buy him a drink later, or give him a skin of Chasind sack mead to cheer him up. Sera would probably have picked him out a few barmaids and give him pointers on what to do, not that he’d need them, he often reminded her.

“Dee, what happened to your arm?” Yetta says, her hands gently coming to rest upon the bandaged limb of her husband. Her face is creased with worry, despite the sympathetic smile Goddard sends her.

“It’s not that bad, I’ve felt worse.” He explains, shrugging loosely and taking her hand in his, kissing her gloved knuckles with a slight bow to his frame. In truth, he hadn’t expected her to be there, with all the trouble going on with Lei’s sudden appearance he had convinced himself he wouldn’t meet anyone at the gates. He tried not to assume he had been forgiven, yet there was a hope in his chest that he had.

“You’ve felt better.” She chided. Goddard sends a small smile to Thom when the man glances over with a raised brow, remembering a similar conversation they had not long ago. He offers him a small wave from his broken wrist as he walks away, looking awfully downtrodden and disheartened, he promises himself that he’ll check on the man later.

“Lizette is here?” He asks, turning back to his wife and releasing her hand.

“Hm, Hollis too,” Her voice is forcefully polite, and it’s a tone she has always taken when talking about those specific siblings-by-law, “they should be welcoming you home.” It was no secret between them that Yetta disliked Lizette, for reasons she had never been able to pin down. She had remained civil throughout the years or knowing her, nobody could deny her of that, though Lizette had hardly been kind in return.

She was the youngest of eight girls, and Lizette was the only daughter of the late Bann Aaric Trevelyan. It took every ounce of willpower not to remind her sister-by-law that her sole fact meant nothing; Aaric cared only for his sons, and he would have seen Lizette as nothing but a bargaining chip and broodmare. But that was far too cruel for her tongue. Her own father had only had his eight daughters in order to finally get a single son; ninth-born as he was, he was the heir. Yetta was the least important child, as was Lizette, and it was for that reason that she stayed her tongue.

Yet, they could never bond over this fact. Lizette was far too proud and stuck in her father’s ways to admit to something like this. Hollis, her leech of a husband, only served to encourage her ways; desperate as he was to have some importance. It must have hurt to be so outshone by the Herald of Andraste that was his brother-by-law.

“I had hoped they’d bring Haylen, she’s the only voice of reason. Off courting in Kirkwall, caught the eye of a nobleman, the uncle of the Champion Hawke apparently.” Yetta adds with a wistful sigh. How those pair had managed to have such wonderful children was beyond her. She was thankful that whilst Goddard had left the estate under Lizette’s watch for the moment, his niece had been there to help. Gylda had stayed as well, courting some unknown person who he had yet to meet despite his numerous attempts.

“Lizette and I have never been that close.” He shrugs, offering her his elbow before they take leave of the wintery weather. His things will be taken and sorted out by maids and such, he hadn’t anything of a dire importance in there that needed to be hidden, so he had no qualms with leaving it. “We can’t be related to the Champion of Kirkwall _and_ the Hero of Ferelden.” Goddard adds as an afterthought that Yetta chooses to ignore. He can spy Andrastopher is the courtyard, a few of the Grey Wardens they saved from Adamant following his movements with eager eyes. His son isn’t there, a fact of which he is rather glad of at the moment.

It had been a revelation from Lady Josephine that he and Andrastopher were related, a caution of sorts, after how many Trevelyans had tried to latch on to him it was wise to know who was who. Goddard’s cousin had married Andrastopher’s aunt a few decades ago, which made him what exactly? He hadn’t the faintest; some kind of once removed cousin, or an uncle-by-law to the Warden Commander? If Haylen and Marcus’ uncle married then he would perhaps be a twice removed cousin of sorts. Goddard had never truly been good at memorising ancestral lines, only ever knowing exactly what he needed to know, and convincing people that family was family no matter how distant.

“It’s a formality, and with how diligent she is, she’s unlikely to forget.” Yetta reminds him, bringing his attention back to her and their current predicament with a quick pinch to his arm.

“Then it’s an insult I shall forgive, she _is_ family.” Goddard says lightly. “Did she say why she was here?” Lizette wasn’t the kind of woman to travel in a flight of fancy, she preferred staying within the wealth of her own home.

“Of course not, although, she has been giving Twyla odd looks ever since she arrived.” Yetta’s voice lowered and she inclined her head up to bring her words closer to her husband’s ear. Goddard has to dip down slightly, but they move with a natural grace accumulated over their years of marriage. Easily in tune with one another despite how they had to offer smiles and small greetings to those in the grand hall as they passed.

“And Lord Hollis?” Goddard said with a slight strain. His brother-by-law was known to have a wandering eye, staring too often at certain women. Twyla could look after herself, he knew that, and he imagined that her right hook was harsher than his own if anything untoward happened. She didn’t need him to break jaws on her behalf, but that wouldn’t stop him from trying.

It was an oddity that Lizette had chosen to marry Hollis. Even back then they seemed slightly ill-suited, as if they were both playing a game against each other. Lizette’s marriage had been arranged as his own was, to bring benefit into house Trevelyan. Though from what Goddard could see, Hollis gained more from marrying a Trevelyan than Lizette got from being one. Of course, now they were both of house Unberge, a minor house with ties to several merchants who had bloomed over the years after being encompassed into the Trevelyan’s wealth and ownership. Though Goddard had read the contracts, he hadn’t seen the underlying clauses that Josephine had pointed out to him. The wealth of the house Unberge was entirely under Trevelyan command.

“He’s been at Lizette’s side almost constantly, it’s unlike him.” Yetta whispered, unable to help the upturn of her lips as Goddard held open the door to their bedchamber for her to pass through. “Dee, I fear they’re up to something.” She added as the door was securely closed behind them; giving them full privacy.

The room smelt of sweet oils and he could feel the warmth from their bathing chamber to indicate a bath had been drawn for his return. He was looking forward to resting his legs. No matter how often he rode a horse it still brought aches to his thighs that he could do without. Goddard begins to unlace his boots as he sits on their bed, passing them one by one to Yetta who sets them down in the dressing room.

“They’re family. I don’t think they’d do something to hurt us.” Goddard says, pausing as he undresses. His arm might not have been his worst injury, but it stood as the only one he could not fully hide under his clothes. His skin had blackened and purpled with bruises painful to touch, the result of a slow albeit persistent internal bleed that had been pointed out a day or two after the battle with Imshael. Apparently, passing out in the middle of the snow fields had caused a great deal of worry.

It was something he didn’t want Yetta to see. Too often she had seen his body mottled with injuries over the decades, and he hadn’t been spry and youthful in years. They both knew how dangerous Goddard’s life had become, even since the conclave, but neither of them wanted to be reminded of how painfully mortal he was.

“She has always been jealous.”  Yetta sighs, sitting beside her husband and removing the sling from behind his neck so that he may bathe easier.

“Yetta, she isn’t jealous.” He says it with a tint of laughter to his voice, they were arguing like children.

“No, Goddard, she could accept that you were named as your father’s heir. But the Herald of Andraste, with this place and an army, royal connections across Thedas-”

“She would gain nothing from hurting us.” He interrupts her quietly, taking her hands in his own and squeezing them as a calm reassurance. Lizette was his sister, and however turbulent her and Yetta’s relationship was, she would not wish harm upon them. No, Goddard couldn’t quite imagine it.

“She would gain something from hurting those around you.” Yetta whispers, “Please, Dee, tread carefully.”

“You’re serious.” Goddard pulls back with a frown, concerned about her fear. Yetta was scarcely wrong about these sort of things, she had an alarmingly good intuition. “I’ll wash up and see her, find out what she wants.” He kisses her knuckles again, and leans into her touch as she cups his face gently.

“Dee.” The name brought a smile to his lips, something that only she would call him. She had variations of it, Tee, Gee, Vee, even Bee for his middle name of Beverly, but only Dee had stuck. Yetta had given it to him in their youth, offhandedly in a conversation, and it still brought the same feeling it had done the first time, every time she said it.

“Hm?”

“I love you.” She says, kissing him tenderly.

“And I, you.” He rests their foreheads together for a moment, peaceful at such a time, before she pulls away and straightens her dress. She gestures to the bathing room loosely and turns to leave. He needed to shave, and he hadn’t bathed properly in a week’s worth of travel. With the injury to his arm, a soldier’s wash beside the main road was hardly worth it.

“Tonight?” She asks as she pauses at the top of the stairs, a grin playing upon her lips.

“Tonight?” Goddard repeats in confusion, and then offers a huff of laughter, “ _oh, tonight_.” He runs his uninjured hand though his thin hair, there would be little chance of hiding the bruises upon his body later. But the promise of intimacy outweighs his desire to keep his injuries hidden.

Thom stands in the area where No One had once lived; there was no trace of him any longer, only some soot stained stone where his small firepit had been. The treacherous broken path had been restored to a state befitting the rest of the fortress, but it gave no comfort to him. He glances out over the mountains, sighing deeply from his chest, and taking in the view. It’s a nice place to live, he thinks, but that hadn’t been enough either. He pulls the small stone from his pocket, chewing on his teeth for a moment before he launches the tiny thing over the edge of the ramparts. A disappointing silence follows it, the stone hardly likely to make any sort of noise when landing in the snow.

He feels foolish for the slightest moment. No One was a chevalier deserter, there wasn’t any chance the man would settle somewhere like this. Surrounded by armed guards, with Orlesian nobles filling the halls, there was too much of a risk and Thom was selfish to try to keep him here. With a defeated sniff and another sigh, he readjusts his bags and decides he’ll head back to his bedchamber and then to the tavern. He offers Lei a wave when he sees the man upon the ramparts, and he gets a grin for his greeting. Lady Twyla tells him that he should have a letter from Fulton in his room when they pass briefly in the grand hall, and bids him a quick farewell before jogging away.

With a grunt he unlatches his bedchamber door, pushing it open with his knee and pausing at the sight upon his bed. Books strewn about, torn pages littering the floor, a mess of blankets and pillows shoved against the headboard and a half empty bottle of wine to one side. His usual neat array has been abandoned, yet it seemed only to have affected his bed. The vanity, his armoire, his armour stand, they were all completely untouched by anything save weeks’ worth of dust. Thom carefully sets his bags down, picking up a few sheets of paper before dropping them. Books on demons and magic, the thought makes him uneasy.

 He bites his tongue as he approaches his small bathing chamber, some kind of shuffling noise coming from within, wondering who had made themselves so comfortable in his room. He presses at his belt, a dagger held there from his travels, and hopes he’s not going to have to use it. Thom knows he’s more of a fisticuffs kind of man, and daggers required a learned finesse that he didn’t have. With a gentle push on the door he feels his heart swell and his chest ache, the fear of an intruder vanished as he recognises the man he’d been moping over for the past half hour.

“Thom.” The voice whispers, his slender fingers pulling away from the heated runes underneath the bathing water. He flicks the droplets off almost nervously, standing beside the tub afraid to even move, visibly sucking his cheek in between his teeth and chewing on it. “I…” He starts, terrified for a moment that he wasn’t allowed to be here, and that his letters had been a mistake.

Thom rushes forward without thinking, stepping around the steaming circular tub and quickly embracing No One in a gripping hug. To know he was here, to feel him against him, to know that he hadn’t failed and he had been enough. No One had come back, and the letter didn’t matter, he didn’t care about that knowing that he had the man in his arms right now.

Thom’s hands curled into the fabric of his shirt, pulling him tight against himself and burying his face into No One’s shoulder. He lets out a relieved huff, at the rumble of laughter he can feel in No One’s chest. Wet hands came up immediately, gripping the thicker fabric of Thom’s coat, holding just as tight as the other man. Lips press thoughtlessly against his temple, and he can feel them turn into a grin of iron.

There’s little hesitation when Thom pulls back and kisses him, then a moment of a silent conversation, a question to ask if this was what they both wanted. No One had revealed so much when he had left all those weeks ago, he had lain himself bare before Thom, and he had wanted Thom to truly think about his words. He hadn’t paid it that much thought, he had only thought of getting back to him.

His lips were hard against No One’s, pushing him up against the wall and lining his body with his own. It’s rough and heavy, skill abandoned in favour of the burning fever in his chest. Thom tastes the iron in his mouth, the lyrium, the tang of the half full wine he had seen before, everything he had thought about for all those nights. They breathe heavy through open mouths, gasping for air desperate to taste each other, pressing close enough for Thom’s belt buckles and notches to dig into No One’s gut.

Hands tangle in his hair, and he feels No One’s hips push back against his own, spreading his legs open for Thom to press closer. There’s a moan upon his tongue and he hasn’t the faintest clue who uttered it, it’s reciprocated deliciously, vibrating into his lungs so intimately. It doesn’t matter whose it was, he knows, when his palms race the length of No One’s torso, it doesn’t matter because he’s here.

He’s real under Thom’s calloused palms, pushing up the fabric of his shirt to grasp at the expanse of skin with clutching hands. His fingers curl against the shape of his ribs, tickled with hair and smoothened with scars. No One’s hands grasp harder at his shoulders, squeezing tight in a moment of pleasure. They dive lower clutching at Thom’s waist, grappling the fabric before slipping underneath and travelling the circumference of his hips. They rest tightly against the swell of his arse, pushing them closer together, squeezing the tensing muscles there.

“Maker’s balls but I thought you’d gone.” Thom pants, pressing weighted kisses against No One’s jaw and his neck, he smelt like shaving oil and soap, tasted like it too. There’s a soft thud and a groan, and a hand returns to cup the back of his head, forcing his biting teeth closer.

“Did you want me to?” He breathes raggedly, his head thrown back against the stone wall, damp with steam rising from the bath. No One leans to the side, trying to cool his burning skin. This was unexpected, though not unappreciated or unwarranted. If he had known Thom was returning today he would have met him at the gates, though he knows this wouldn’t have happened if he had. A chaste, polite for public, kind of kiss perhaps. Not this burning flame that enveloped him in lust, scratching at his insides and melting into his lungs.

“No.” He said, muffled and distorted by No One’s skin, not willing to let go to speak properly, “No, I’ve, I, I can’t believe you’re here, I thought, I mean, for certain, I.” No One’s exasperated laughter cuts him off as his sentences fail him, and he leans back to look at him; his face red with wet lips and half lidded eyes. His neck beginning to bloom with the scratches from Thom’s beard and his teeth. “I was worried about you.”

“I missed you.” No One whispered, fingers trailing down Thom’s chest and catching in the belt at his waist. “I didn’t think you’d be back yet, it explains why they had this filled.” He nods at the bath. He could have figured that out, they wouldn’t have lugged all that water up here for him.

“We didn’t stay a night in The Flying Arms, rode through and camped to save some time.” Thom offers as way of an explanation, grinning as No One’s arm encircled his shoulders, bringing them closer for a less intense kiss. Softer this time, the kind of kiss you’d have to properly say welcome home, the kind No One would have expected if he had waited at the gates.

“I thought you’d be another month or so.” He admits, fully having expected to spend a good portion of time mooning over his letters. “The Emprise du Lion wasn’t too bad then?” He asks, wondering whether the rumours he had heard were true in any sense, or had just been over embellished with every tongue that told the tale.

“I thought you said you missed me.” He laughs, a brow raising in his defence.

“I did.” No One says, cradling Thom’s jaw and letting his thumbs smooth the untrimmed greying hair. He can’t help but notice the yellowing of his forehead, a hefty bruise of some sort. “I’ll leave you to your bath, and I’ll clean up in there.” No One clears his throat and steers Thom gently away, stepping around the man until he had his own back to the open door.

“It’s big enough for two.” He says quietly, hand lingering in No One’s own, holding just tight enough to stop the man from leaving. Big enough for two wasn’t exactly the truth, they’d have to be pressed against each other or have their legs entangled. But he could think of worse problems to have.

“I’m talking about the room.” No One snorts, thinking how best to get rid of all the ripped pages, and where to hide the Mirtha’ghila tome that he definitely should not have. Hidden under the towels in the bathing chamber wasn’t exactly an option anymore. He assumes that Thom has no qualms about him having stayed there, whether that’ll change now the man is back from his journey is a different thing entirely. But from that kiss, that wonderful kiss, he can’t imagine sleeping on his settee would be too much of a problem.

He runs his hands through his hair repeatedly to calm his thundering heart. No One hadn’t been kissed like that in years, No One hadn’t felt so wanted in years. It’s hard to quell the grin on his face, and he finds he doesn’t want to. Even when faced with reminders of his nightmares strewn about the room it doesn’t faze him; Thom was back, and Thom wanted him here.

Thom shuts the door to his small bathing chamber, standing peacefully for a moment with the embers of arousal filtering over his body. He sighs deeply before stripping and settling in the water, the sounds of No One shuffling about in the next room a much-desired noise in the background. Thom bathes quickly, reaching for a small looking glass to trim the unruly curls in his beard. He hadn’t taken the time to shave when they were travelling, all of them rarely do. Dorian manages, somehow, magic probably.

He uses oil to curl the ends of his moustache and to pull his beard into finer points, still keeping to Blackwall’s sense of facial hair. The thought nags at him whether or not to shave it all off, with Blackwall’s griffon helmet truly buggered he’d have to get another, and having a full faced helmet would do him more protection than a few wiry hairs could. Thom had mourned the loss of that helmet, it had been one of the few things that he had taken from Blackwall. Unjustly as that had been, he had few reminders of the man who had changed his life for the better. He shouldn’t have taken things from the man’s corpse, but he convinced himself it was his only choice. Thom would have to go back to the Storm Coast one day, to set up some kind of memory for him.

Thom’s bed chamber was remarkably clean when he stepped out from the bath, he could see pages curling in the fire and the bed had been made to some kind of standard. No One evidently not the best chambermaid in Skyhold. He sat upon the sheets partially in disarray, thumbing through one of the books which didn’t look to have been destroyed yet. No One sets it down almost immediately, an offer of a drink on his lips, and standing to leave before Thom can ever answer.

Lizette’s bedchamber was not the grandest in Skyhold, though it was the best they could offer her. A place often reserved for visiting nobles of the highest of classes; for she would accept no less. It had a view of the mountains around them from wide stained-glass windows, and she would be able to watch the sunset every evening. The room housed the furniture she needed, and some of it excessive, all of it painted with golds and whites, perfectly unoffendable. Unless you hated the unanimity of it all.

She had been expecting her brother to turn up for hours, to come and visit his only sister. Lizette wouldn’t go to him, she commended herself in her willpower, knowing that Goddard couldn’t control her and demand her as he does with everything else. She had sent Hollis away, his constant bumbling starting to grate on her nerves; she had information not meant for his ears so he would have had to leave anyway.

A knock upon her door takes her away from gazing out the windows, she counts the seconds in her head, speaking out before Goddard could impatiently knock again.

“Come in.” Lizette calls, hardly raising her voice so as not to strain her delicate throat. She takes a seat upon one of the plush white settees set in the middle of the room, not too close to the fire to bring a blush to her cheeks, but not too far away as to be so cold.

“Dearest sister,” Goddard says, offering a slight bow and taking a seat opposite her when she offered it, “to what do I owe the pleasure.” He pours them both a small cup of tea, with little skill due to his bandaged arm, but she doesn’t stop him.  It’s the kind of potent brew she likes, and the one Goddard finds most foul. Lizette had chosen it purposefully for that reason. Her husband had uselessly told her that it was a favoured blend of the visiting Warden Commander, as if that made it any better or worse.

“I have news that I didn’t wish to entrust to a messenger.” She says softly, taking her cup between gentle fingers, bringing it to her lips and tasting the bitter tea. It forces Goddard to mimic her out of politeness, and she sees him wince as he scalds his tongue.

“And that is?” He clears his throat, trying to will the burn away.

“Two things; the first; Gylda is with child.” She sets her cup down with a clink upon the elegantly painted saucer, folding her hands neatly in her lap.

“What?” Goddard says, visibly chewing his tongue to stay his shock, “By _who_?” Gylda wasn’t yet married, nor even betrothed. As much as it shames him to say it, a pregnancy out of wedlock would not be something so easily washed away if that is what she wanted. He wouldn’t chastise her for engaging in certain activities that led to such things, he hadn’t exactly been untouched before his wedding night, and he hadn’t put unrealistic expectations of celibacy on his own children either.

“Lord Hofton.” She raises her eyebrows just a touch, as if she were judging Gylda for her attractions. The boy was short and portly, and with Gylda’s growing height they made for an odd-looking couple.

“Sutton?” Goddard seethes. A married man with several children by several women, charming as he was it was hard not to see how smarmy he had become in his later years. Still he was handsome, and had a habit of seducing women much younger than he, who didn’t know any better.

“No, his son,” She chastises, “Taron.”

“I’ll speak to Twyla.” He sighs, a relief settling in his gut. Taron was far kinder than his father, he wasn’t the heir to the Hofton seat, but he was a nice enough young man. From what Goddard could remember when he had met him six or seven years ago, when the lad had been about twelve, and covered in the ever-present acne of youth. Whatever had happened, it was not his to deal with unless Twyla asked him to. The idea of a greatgrandchild was rapidly warming his heart, and he would have to control his excitement when he informed his daughter of Gylda’s pregnancy.

“You should marry them as quickly as possible, we don’t want any more Trevelyan bastards.” Lizette informs him, hoping that her words carry the bite she intends that is absent from her tone. Finding out about her brother’s affair and his new child had born an awkward sense of guilt in her stomach as she worked out the dates. Her assassination attempt, having Goddard thrown from his horse all those years ago in Ferelden, had not killed him but had given him a child instead. Not just a bastard, a stain on any family line, but a Dalish one.

She had seen the young man in the courtyard one day, recognised his crooked nose and heavy jaw, disguised under tawny coloured skin and the curling hair of a Trevelyan. Had it not been for his overtly loud conversation with his barbaric ink-stained sparring partner, she would never have guessed him to be of a Dalish heritage.

“I will speak to Twyla.” He repeats, unwilling to be wounded by the insult. “The other thing you wished to tell me?”

“You need to stop looking for that-” She paused to collect herself, to sniff with distain, “- _man_.”

“Who?” Goddard laughs at his sister’s pinching face. She hadn’t the hardened features that he and Milward had inherited from their father, and whenever she tried to mimic the expression that could utilise them, her face merely pinched. It would get worse the more Goddard laughed at it, and it brought her more anger than she could explain.

“That debauched tutor.” She sneers.

“The _who_? Florent?” His laughter fades as he clears his throat, “I only wanted to find out how he fared.” He feels solemn when he thinks of the man, all of his pleasant memories settling under the shadow of his father. For a moment Goddard hopes that Lizette has news of him, perhaps he now lives under a pseudonym, no doubt his name was dragged through the mud just as Goddard’s had been back then. Orlesians were kinder to the thought of two men or two women together; it was a character quirk and nothing more. But Goddard was not Orlesian, and neither was his father.

“He’s dead.” She states, picking up her cup to take a sip now it had cooled slightly. Hiding the upturn of his lips at her brother’s change in expression, no longer was he filled with joy or memories, but grief and simmering anger. If it weren’t for his desire to keep what thinning hair he had and his dark eyes, he would look remarkably like their father.

“He’s, he’s what? Lizette, you can hardly know that.” His words stutter across his tongue, his hope turning to dust in his throat. “There would be records, evidence, a funeral, a pyre, a, a, he was the heir to a dukedom, his death would not be unrecognised.”

“Don’t be so stupid, Goddard.” She sniffs, taking a moment to set her cup down and smooth out her dress. “I know you had his brother invited here, and I came to advise you against it, but I was delayed by your untimely granddaughter meddling with things she doesn’t understand.” Gylda had confessed to Pax asking about the physicality of giving birth, and she had eventually spread the news to her mother Lizette. The young girl already three months into her pregnancy, though it was not too late to destroy the unborn child. Lizette had tried to convince her, but she was adamant that she would keep it, she loved Taron as he loved her.

“Did you see him die?” Goddard asks, desperate for a clear-cut explanation. He had spent so long searching for him, he wasn’t just going to accept that. He would accept if Florent wanted nothing to do with him, he would accept it if Florent had died of age or illness. But he wouldn’t accept those two words, _he’s dead_ , as if he meant nothing.

“What are you implying?”

“Did you, Lizette, see Ser Florent Baroulx die?” He repeats again, enunciating each of his words perfectly as he leans in closer.

“Father killed him, bested him in single combat. Chevaliers aren’t all they’re made out to be.” She sniffed, pride filling her chest. Aaric Trevelyan was a strong warrior in her eyes, known to wield a great hammer that required tremendous strength even just to move it. So great that it was rare that father even took the time to employ it; there was little point in getting over-exerted for no reason.

“I don’t believe you.” He bites his tongue and shakes his head in denial. Florent was a master swordsman, despite the lancing injury to his leg, he had still been extremely capable. He had confessed once that he had forcibly made his injury look far worse than it was so he could be free of the Orlesian order.

The chevalier had been trained to deal with every situation, with every weapon, against every opponent. Aaric Trevelyan would not have bested him alone, it was rare that Goddard could outmatch him. The rigorous training sessions and the thrill he finally got after beating him was worth it all; it made Goddard a force to be reckoned with. It was probably all of Florent’s work that Goddard had even made it this far; surviving the avalanche that destroyed Haven, walking the Fade, fighting giants and demons and dragons.

“You’ve always been so stupid, even when everything is given to you, you’re still-” Lizette bites, gripping her cup just a touch too hard. The porcelain digging into her fingers reminds her to relax, “simply know that I am telling the truth, I have no reason to lie.” She had little reason to tell the truth beside her own desire to knock Goddard back down a few rungs, but she wasn’t about to tell him that.

“There was no pyre, not anywhere in the estate.” Goddard says, he would have seen that, someone would have seen that. He spent weeks sobbing when Florent had left, sleeping in the chevalier’s chambers before he was forcibly removed and the room redecorated for someone else. His father couldn’t have hidden something like this.

“Because we buried him.” She says.

“Buried him?” He whispers, the thought of him being trapped under all the dirt and stone that made up Thedas; it made him feel ill

“The elves do it all the time; fitting for an Orlesian.” Lizette sniffs, hoping to wound him yet again. She couldn’t understand why he had been so enthralled by the lion, Orlesians were never particularly good at anything but pretending they were.

“Was he even commended to the Maker? Father murders him, and doesn’t even have the honour to grant him a pyre?” Any sort of pyre would do, just to know he hadn’t been rotting underground for several decades. A similar feeling to that of when he heard of Wakefield’s pyre burns in his chest, at least his son had a funeral. Even if it was a commoner’s pyre for several men and women, they had all been allowed to take their rightful places beside the Maker.

“He was hardly worthy of that after what he did to this family.” She sips the remainder from her cup and sets it down, staring out of the coloured windows. It was a beautiful view, something to distract herself with when her mind brought up explicit memories that she would rather forget.

“And what did he do, Lizette? What did he do that was so incorrigible and unforgivable that he is denied his rightful seat beside the Maker?” Goddard can’t help how his voice rises, how his gut burns and his fists curl. She reminded him of their father, the disgust he had for those who weren’t exactly as he was. Goddard had shamed him by loving a man, that’s what Aaric had told him, he might as well have spat on their ancestors. He almost pities her for her opinions, ones only she had inherited.

“You know exactly what he did. You were there, soiling my family name by rutting like a dog with that filthy waste.” Lizette spits her words out as if they taste foul in her mouth. It was something that Goddard had never known, but she had seen them, together like that. The image seared so unpleasantly into her memory. It makes her sick, but back then she had felt overjoyed; her eldest brother was doing something so foul and forbidden that their father could hardly keep him as the favourite. Lizette had told him, and the next day Aaric had found them together.

She remembers watching as the chevalier was forced to saddle his horse and ride off, the guards preventing him from entering the estate, forcibly if needed. Lizette had watched it all from the window, imagining the praise she would receive for stopping something most foul from happening in their household.

It was not what Goddard remembered of that day. It was how his cheeks burned and his eyes stung, his father’s yells that echoed through the walls and the glass that shattered whence it had been thrown at him in fury. But none of that mattered. He could hear Florent yelling in the courtyard, his accent thick and Orlesian enough that nobody could deny it was him. The chevalier made Aaric angrier with every word, but Goddard couldn’t care. It was only when the shouting stopped that he felt his heart sink and a fresh wave of tears spill from him.

“Where is he buried?” Goddard chews on his teeth, trying to keep a calm façade in place when he was readily crumbling inside. He had been searching for a dead man this entire time, and had it not been for that man who claimed he was Luin Saile, he might never have known. He didn’t know whether to thank the man or hate him.

“The northern side of the main estate, we had that dreadful storm that uprooted some of the trees, he’s buried around there. His pyre can be the box he was buried in.” She says it flippantly, as if it wasn’t a grave insult to Florent’s honour. To be buried in a crate, for all that time, and to be denied the peace that the Maker could bring.

“I have no intention of giving him a funeral, it is not _my_ place to do so. He will be returned to his family, so that their grieving may end, so that they may have answers to where their brother has been all this time.” He says it strongly, finding something stubborn enough in him to stay his tongue. She is his sister, and she does not carry the sins of their father. “You of all people should know what it is to lose a sibling.”

Fulton, his younger brother who was his eldest son’s namesake. He had died a few short months after Goddard had left for Orlais, hunting, trampled to death by the horse he so often rode. Goddard had been blamed for that. He wasn’t there to go hunting with his brother, so often that it was that Fulton rarely got off of his mount because they both jested Goddard had to do something if he wasn’t able to do anything with a bow. He would always fetch the rabbits and birds his brother shot, it would be better to have a dog to do that sort of thing, but Goddard had always been afraid of those.

It was only a cruelty that Goddard had been blamed when the rumour came up that it was an assassination attempt. He was in Orlesian occupied Ferelden, and had known to have had intimacies with an Orlesian noble. A hunting accident was far too conspicuous not to have aroused some suspicion around him. All of it was untrue. Goddard loved Fulton, he loved him so dearly that it was rare that they were separate.

Fulton had allowed him to grieve for Florent, to grieve his lover’s absence. As young as he was, only fifteen, he had arranged safe passage for Goddard to travel to Ferelden, and had arranged for him to meet with some of the captains in the military there. Far too smart for his own age. It was shamefully understandable why people had thought Goddard, the banished and disgraced heir to the bannorn, would want to rid himself of the competition.

The blame had only increased when their youngest brother Milward had been attacked twelve years later. He had survived, barely, and it had been a torturous time for everyone. The assassin’s blade had cut deep enough into his back before he could slay the intruder, it caused more damage the longer it stayed embedded within him, and he had spent the night bleeding in agony. Healers had saved his life, one thing that Goddard could thank his father for, but they could not save the use of his legs.

“It is hardly the same.” She says, her face pinching once again.

“No.” He snaps. “No, you’re right, it isn’t the same at all, because Florent was _murdered_ , by a _Trevelyan_. Which means as head of this house I have to make reparations to the Baroulxs, which puts me in…” He grinds his teeth and inhales deeply.

“Puts you where?” Her painted eyebrows twitch only slightly, unsure of where Goddard was going with his trail of thought. The Baroulxs were known to be a family that was entirely dedicated to the chevaliers, Lizette had done her research, many of them had died or disappeared in the line of their duty, another wouldn’t be missed. She knew of the death of Florent’s nephew, and the death of his sister, the family was hardly new to the concept of loss.

“A very volatile predicament, of which I do not wish to be in at this very moment. I cannot bandy about getting favours when I’m trying to save Thedas.” Favours from the Emperor of Orlais, which would be a tad bit easier than gaining favours from a family who’s only member he had met previously, had been buried under the Trevelyan estate for almost half a century. Still, he was going to try, Maxime had been empathetic enough to his predicament. There was a chance the rest of the family would be too.

“So, leave the body where it is. Nobody else knows, only yourself and I.” She shrugs lightly, her dress rising with her shoulders until she readjusts the fabric. For a moment she wonders if telling Goddard the location of the body was a bad idea, she could have lied about it, and then Goddard might never have found anything. But who was to say that he would have stopped looking.

“I shan’t even explain to you how wrong that is in the eyes of the Maker,” He says, standing quickly to turn from her. She is his sister, and yet he could not find it within himself to look at her any longer. The things she had said, the things she had done, it was not the woman he knew, this was too spiteful, too punishing.

“Give him the pyre you’re so desperate for and leave it at that.” She sniffs, turning to look at her brother’s heaving back. He was rubbing at his face and stroking back his hair, too obvious in his emotions. “Your desire to be honourable and truthful will get you killed, father had always said-”

“I do not care what he said.” Goddard barks, “I care less now than I ever have before. Aaric Trevelyan was a malicious and cruel man, he is better dead, and we are better off for it.” He turns back to her, his hand gripping the top of the settee, the wooden frame digging into his palm and turning his knuckles white.

“How dare you.”

“How dare I? _How dare I?_ ” He shouts, his palm smacking repeatedly against the wood with the frustration of a child. “The man who tried to sell me to the templars, who killed the man I loved, who had the gall to blame me for half a century because I wasn’t there to protect Fulton, nor Milward?”

“He gave you the bannorn, he named you heir, even after everything you had done.” She stands with a measured care, taking light-footed steps to stand beside the windows. The view; breath taking, and entirely unsuited to the current conversation. Sunset was upon them, the skies beginning to purple as the minutes go by. The breach was more obvious at night, giving the sky that sickly green glow they had all gotten used to at an alarming rate. Of course it was Goddard who believed he could fight the sky.

“Because if there was one thing he was, it was an old traditional cunt who only saw his children as means to produce _more_.” He says, abandoning the assault on the settee and stepping towards Lizette. Goddard spares no time for the views, instead he commands his sister’s attention, his palm flat against the window in a quiet slap. “Do you know what pressures he put on Yetta? The one time she saw him, because she thought she wanted our children to know him, he asked her why she hadn’t had more. Why stop at three? He didn’t care that her pregnancy almost killed her, he only wanted _more_ grandchildren.” He bites his tongue in fury, feeling his throat swell at the memories. “She bled and laboured for hours upon hours, terrified that she would lose our son, our little boy. That man, had the gall to demand _more_.”

“What does this have to do with anything, Goddard?”

“Because you need to stop looking at him as a hero, when he was never anything close.” He pauses when she catches his eye, holding his stare and speaking only when she opens her mouth to begin. “He was avaricious and spiteful, he only cared when it was things taken from him. Nobody else ever mattered.” The resounding slap echoes in the bedchamber, a burning red spreading across Goddard’s cheek, her wedding band splitting a corner of blood into his face.

“It is unwise and impious to speak of the dead.” Lizette says it with as much strength as she can manage.

“Heed your own words, Lizette.” He spat, turning from her so that he wouldn’t return the offence. She found a joy in tormenting Goddard. It wasn’t always as such, but this hatred, this jealousy, it had bloomed in her teenage years. He always thought that she would grow out of it, but it had festered like an infected wound, until all that she was had become bile and poison.

There’s a slap upon Thom’s back in the tavern, it jolts him enough that the mugs he carries slap ale across the floor. The Iron Bull’s hand grips his shoulder and he offers him a sly grin.

“Back on the horse, big guy?” He says, pressing his nose against Thom’s temple and dragging him in for half-made hug. He laughs and shrugs the Qunari off, happy to return to the other kind of iron he has. No One takes the mug with both hands, his bare feet resting high up on the table, and his lips pulled into an open-mouthed grin. He continues with a tale from his youth, talking about his rise to Orlesian captaincy. They might have a strength in their army but the Markham Marchers had something else to them. No One laughs loudly with a flushed face and wiggling toes, his arm slung around Thom’s shoulders and leaning into him.

It’s the kind of clinginess that he finds himself returning, keeping their conversations private and whispering as quiet as they may in the bustling tavern. Maryden entertains for the night, singing her songs proudly, her voice weaving between the few who’ve chosen to dance. He’s glad to be back, he’s glad to be home.

No One kisses him offhandedly, with soft lips and ale breath. Pulling him closer with the crook of his elbow and then turning back to the dancers. One stumbles and pulls his partner down with him, it ruins the momentum of the whole thing but the tavern erupts in echoing hilarity. Thom can’t quite focus on it. The profile of No One beside him, cheeks dimpling with joy, iron teeth shining, a crinkle to the corners of his eyes, and a redness brought on with the drink. He can’t see the scars that lance his face from this side, only the small thing above his brow that Fulton gave him, and the silver end of the one that half crosses his cheekbone.

Thom can see it now, he thinks, the nobleman that was once hidden beneath layers of grime and pauper’s rags. The high cheekbones and long lashes, it sets awkwardly with the fatigued purpling beneath his eyes, but he looks no less like himself. No One turns and offers Thom a grin, his face softening when he sees him looking at him, truly looking at him. And just at that moment, No One doesn’t care what Thom might see. Whether he sees the wolf that took his eyes, the one who took his teeth, the one who marred his skin, or the one who stole his youth. Thom sees someone, and that is enough.

No One leads him from the tavern to his bedchamber with the promise of much more than a kiss. They hadn’t stayed long, walking through the snow with the barest sunlight lingering across the mountains. Skyhold was still vibrating with people wandering the courtyards, basking in the fading heat of the day. It doesn’t sway their steps nor their expressions; too obvious of what they’re about to do.

Laughter tumbles from their lips for the lack of words they can create. Despite No One’s resistance to alcohol, he’s amazed at how his body feels alit with the ale, bring his face to flush and his legs to shake. Perhaps it wasn’t the drink at all, perhaps that was all entirely down to Thom. He kisses him when they’re alone in the corridor, a desperate need in his gut to taste the man again.

It was fair to say that neither man hadn’t imagined this in their time apart, with their own wandering hands acting as each other’s. But now, as Thom’s hands find themselves once more under No One’s shirt, calloused fingers splayed to grab at as much as he could. It makes his stomach clench and push into the feeling, his hips following in the movement, lusting after the other man.

“Here?” No One asks, his voice more breath than sound. Thom’s resounding grunt is the only answer as he pulls them down the corridor, trying to remain walking and attached to one another. It’s awkward at best, but they’re both glad that nobody else is in the vicinity. No One manages to knock the door open with a slap of his palm, walking backwards with his arm outstretched so as not to stumble. He’s laughing upon Thom’s lips, one hand tangled in his damp hair and pulling him closer. He tastes of ale, unsurprisingly, but there’s something sweeter beneath, something addictive that No One can’t quite place. Something that is uniquely Thom, and when he finds his tongue tracing his own, he finds it ungodly and sublime.

The druffalo wool blanket is the first thing to be abandoned once they’re inside, thrown to the floor with little grace, and stepped over on the journey to the bed. No One curls his toes in the slightly chilled wool, humming at the soft curls that bend under his weight. He stumbles, untying the knot that keeps his shirt at his waist, tangling it over his head quickly to throw it away.

It’s not the first time that Thom has seen him shirtless, but it’s the first time No One has ever felt so physically exposed in front of him. He licks his drying lips nervously, tapping the tips of his fingers to his thumb before offering Thom his hand. No One feels self-conscious for the barest moment, all skin and bones with a gut that has started to bloat and sag, it hardly paints the most attractive picture. With the odd grey hair here and there, skin marred with scars and shadows. He’s hardly the same man he was in his youth.

But Thom reaches out slowly, grasping his hand in his own, gently entwining them before yanking the man forward with a measured strength. The fabric of Thom’s coat chills against No One’s bare chest, the man sucking in a quick breath as his lips are captured in another heated kiss. Hands grope his waist, pinching at what little fat he has there, thumbs digging into the protrusion of his hips. No One can feel Thom’s buckle against his gut, the metal sweating against his skin. He pulls himself closer despite the edges, wrapping one arm around his shoulders and using the other to pull the leather from the buckle.

With a few tugs it’s the first piece of clothing for Thom to lose, and he wants the others to follow just as quickly. He finds himself almost jealous that No One wears so little, two, three pieces of clothing, nothing compared to the layers and belts and armour that Thom wore. Once the belt is gone entirely, No One’s fingers work quickly to pull apart Thom’s coat, pushing it down his shoulders hurriedly, biting his way into the crook of his neck.  Thom grunts with the iron against his throat, fumbling with the cuffs of his tunic. He roughly squeezes his hands through the holes, ripping if from over his head and dropping it to the floor, returning to cradle No One’s face.

They fall backwards upon the bed, both shirtless and better off for it, No One grunting with Thom’s weight landing upon him. They laugh through it, pushing themselves further across the sheets, crawling after one another with biting kisses. They taste each other quickly, No One’s legs separating with the pressure of Thom’s palm to allow his hips to bear their full weight down upon him. Boots are roughly kicked off, thick woollen socks too, and No One’s legs encircle his thighs, pulling him closer with a quick tug and a hitch in his hips. Thom groans into his mouth, feeling heels dig into his arse, and his cock dig into the juncture of No One’s legs.

He kisses his way down No One’s neck, open mouthed and groaning at the way his skin tenses under his tongue. No One angles his head to give Thom more to bite at, his hands tangle in his hair, running the length and down across muscled shoulders. His bitten nails scratch lines down Thom’s back, dragging up again to curl around his neck, pulling him evermore closer. No One rolls his hips, his clothed cock dragging against Thom’s own. His moans become louder, his breath huffing from his lungs as the other man journeys down his torso.

Thom traces the silvered line which separates the sea of hair that covers his chest, grinning at the prickles which assault his lips. His tongue dips into the crevice of his navel, after ravishing his chest with closed-lipped kisses, ushering a rumbled laughter from the man below him. No One pulls him back up gently, leading him back towards his lips with palms across his bearded jaw. He follows diligently, grunting when No One flips him with the force of his thighs. Thom had seen him flip Fulton before, rougher, more aggressively, not with the underlying mention of a practiced grace.

He laces their fingers together, keeping Thom pinned beneath him and riding his hips. Their clothed cocks slide roughly against each other, and with the way No One moves against him he realises he can’t do much but lie there and enjoy it. His hips, as they are, currently trapped between No One’s tensing thighs. Which is wonderful, and he throws his head back in pleasure, breathing through grinning teeth to starve his voice. He half wishes he’d have the time to strip himself naked, but he can’t imagine No One pulling back from him, not even for a minute.

His hand is released, and his palm grabs for No One’s chest, pushing roughly at the muscle there and pinching the swell of his nipple between his thumb and forefinger. Thom can feel the twitch in No One’s hips from the offense, and the way his breath catches in his throat. The thought makes him moan louder, rubbing at the protruding nub, watching how No One angles his chest into the action. He pulls his fingers back, licking the pad of his thumb before returning to his assault. He hears the other man laugh, embarrassed at how much he enjoys the ministrations, but feeling no shame in how Thom plays with him. He uses the tip of his thumbnail to catch the bud more intensely. No One hisses at the action, pulling back from their kiss, with the barest hint off a frown upon his brow.

There’s an apology on his lips before he stops him with a shake of his head, his blonde hair sticking out at all angles, but somehow falling gracefully across his shoulders. It makes for a beautiful sight, more so when he pushes the strands back from his forehead, sitting across Thom’s hips with his iron grin.

His hands are unsteady as they pull at the knot which keeps No One’s breeches around his hips, fingers shaking as his knuckles brush against the outline of his cock. The scar that travelled the length of his torso is more obvious where it ends amongst the curling hair about his sex. Thom thumbs at it gently, tracing it with curiosity on his face. He had been told the story before, vaguely. No One grabs his hand with care, dragging his fingertips across the silver skin and to his mouth. He bathes the digits with his tongue, letting his cheeks hollow and his teeth scrape them.

“I’ve enough scars to keep us busy all night with stories.” No One whispers pulling the fingers from his mouth and letting his lips glance off of the pad of Thom’s fingertips. They leave a wetness behind them, drying as they’re dragged down No One’s chest and return to removing his breeches. Thom would be nervous if he hadn’t of drank so much ale. He can count the times he’s slept with men on both hands, even then he’s being generous about what exactly counts as sex in the tally. But it’s the Anderfel courage that he’d needed to settle the nerves which had been pulling him in every direction today.

No One’s cock is a beautiful reddened thing, it juts out from his body and almost bounces when his hips roll. Thom has but a few scarce seconds to admire it before he is kissed again. Hands far more dexterous than his own untie the lacing of his breeches, tugging them down quickly with his underthings to end up creasing about his thighs. There’s an appreciative hum when their sexes align, followed by a deep groan and a huff of heated breath. His hands, useless things, rest against No One’s arse, gripping and squeezing at the still clothed flesh until they’re directed to his cock. He grabs them both in his calloused palm, the hardened rough patches cause No One’s breath to catch in his throat, a strangled moan the only thing that can filter through.

He thrusts slowly at first, leaning back to sit up straight, his palms keeping him balanced on Thom’s chest. His fingers dig into the flesh there, as his back arches and his lungs heave. Thom can’t help but stare, to watch his ribs blossom from his chest, his shoulders drop and his muscles tense. No One stares down at him, his grey eyes darkened with lust, his hair illuminated from the fire behind. He looks divine beyond words.

Fingers pull his hair back, both arms raising to do so. It mesmerises Thom with the way his torso dances, rolling through old muscles, angled bones, and the slightest layer of fat, all in a constant state of transformation.

“Andraste’s tits.” He breathes, one hand riding the length of No One’s torso, catching hairs as it goes. It makes him bark out his laughter, lined with grunts and moans. His hips roll faster, more aggressively. Gone is the celestial figure of No One as he leans down to suffocate Thom with his pleasure. His lips tinted with lust, a promise of more upon them. They kiss with a scalding fever, engulfing each other with a burning passion.

“Fuck.” He hisses, biting his lip and pushing his face into the crook of Thom’s neck. His hips shudder, and with pain of the bitten nails digging into his hips he can feel No One trying to delay his orgasm. “Fuck, fuck, _fuck_.” The rhythm is lost, instead he chases after his own pleasure, rutting into Thom’s fist until he comes with an unsilenced shout.  His hips twitch and ride through the feeling, moaning at the wetness it supplies.

No One kisses Thom, first upon the reddening mark that blooms across his collarbone, and then against his lips. Lazily and barely there, but he returns it with a similar gentleness. He feels No One laugh more than he hears it, and he watches the blonde descend his torso with an opened mouth, fingers tugging at the breeches still stuck around his thighs. They’re removed with a few movements, and Thom leans back on the bed, his hands half wiped clean on the bedsheets around him.

There’s a grunt and then a metallic thud upon the chest beside his bed. It draws his attention enough just for him to see the iron teeth that No One wears, before a mouth is upon his cock. He’s still wet with the other man’s come, and his toes curl as his sex is swallowed. Several things are questioned through touch; whether Thom likes the scrape of teeth, if he prefers the head of his cock to rub against the concave of his upper jaw or the back of his throat. Several mumbled words spill from him, rising to a shout when he feels himself pass beyond his mouth and into the tightness of his neck.

No One swallows around him, his breath measured with flaring nostrils, and his hands warming around Thom’s bollocks. He can admit that he’s never been persistently keen on receiving oral, Thom would much rather give it, but Maker if No One isn’t going to change his mind. His tongue curls around his cock, swallowing desperately as Thom’s words form incoherent babbles. It’s only a moment before he finds himself coming, hands curling into dirtied sheets and knees bending with euphoria.

There’s a grin upon No One’s mouth when he rises from between Thom’s thighs, and it invokes the strangest feeling of intimacy in his gut when he sees him smile without iron.

“May I kiss you?” He asks, licking his lips as he crawls over him.

“Always.” Thom breathes, pulling No One closer with his heels digging into the backs of his thighs. He thinks for a moment in his state of bliss that it’s an odd thing to ask, but he can taste himself on No One’s tongue, mixed without the potency of lyrium now that the iron has gone. It’s as if he’s kissing an entirely new man, and it’s just as addictive.

No One pulls back with a bare-teeth smile, tying his breeches back into a knot to keep them upon his hips. He turns away for a moment, reaching to take a swig of wine to clear his mouth, he offers the bottle to Thom with a bowing nod. A drink is taken, and the bottle returned. He leans over to grab and press his iron teeth back into his mouth, offering Thom a show worthy smile before settling on the bed beside him. He feels less slighted when he realises No One is only making a half attempt to clean his teeth before slipping the iron back in.

Thom offers his hand to him, pulling him to rest gently into his side. He manoeuvres the bed sheets for a moment, avoiding the slightly damp patches, and pulling the cleaner ones over their waists. He leans towards No One, embracing him with a kiss to his temple.

“I’m glad you’re back.” He hums, his fingers dragging over the swell of Thom’s arm. You’d not think he’d have the visible strength from the thicker coats he wore, but it was there, hidden under hair and some fat. A truer strength, not the carved lines of skinnier men.

“I’m glad you stayed.” Thom whispers, pressing his lips to his brow once more. No One had remained in his breeches throughout, tangled around his thighs to show off his cock, but still, never truly naked. He’d take them off next time, to kiss down his legs, to taste and see more.

“How could I not? I could barely stand to leave, and your letters were compelling.” No One chews his lips, feeling as if he’s talking of courting like it’s his first time, as if he hadn’t just swallowed Thom’s cock so desperately. “I’ll admit I’m happy to have _this_ instead of a written reply.”

“You sent me a letter then?”

“And, you didn’t get it.” No One pulls back and swallows heavily. He had given it to Caldwell, who said that he had placed it with the other letters to the members of Inquisition. The elf wouldn’t have lied to him surely, this had all happened before he had drunkenly tried to reinitiate a fumble.

“No One?” Thom sits up to chase after him, a hand laid gently upon the other man’s knee.

“The spymaster had my home torn down, I’ve been living in here since I returned. I did ask permission but now I feel I’ve made things awkward and forced your hand.” He explains it quickly, gesturing loosely with his hands and sitting at the foot of the bed. No One had slept with people before, if only for a place to stay in the night. It’s something he doesn’t want to admit right now, but he can’t help but feel like he’s making Thom stop him from leaving, because it would be the polite thing to do. “I can go if you want. I’ve been kicked out of beds before, it’s nothing to what little ego I have.”

“Little?” Thom snorts, the man might not think he cares about how he looks and acts but there’s pride in there. He reaches out to entwine their fingers, speaking softly, “stay, please.” After all that time thinking No One had fled, he’s not about to let him leave so easily. Thom has more to offer, and he’s adamant that he’ll see it through.


	39. To Be Found

It had been remarkably harder to concentrate on reading with Thom snoring beside him. Too often he found himself glancing down at the man, his arm wrapped lazily around his hips, mumbling every so often as he slept. No One had to shift and stretch his legs out every once in a while, but Thom just huffed I lazy protest when he did. He must have read the same few pages half a dozen times before the words began to truly sink in. Futile in the end, he couldn’t find any connection to what had happened to him.

Instead he fantasized about sleeping peacefully next to Thom, without the threat of his night terrors causing him to injure the other man. The vellum from Cousland remained on the chest beside his bed, still neatly folded and yet unread. A probable solution to his problems, if it worked. He had taken sleeping draughts before, none of them had managed to remove his nightmares, only trap him within them for much longer than he could bare. It was something he’d rather not commit to again, especially not now that corpse-demon was haunting him. But Cousland had mentioned it was something to help him _after_ hearing of his night terrors.

Whatever he thought of the Warden Commander, it was obvious enough that he wasn’t a stupid man. Intolerable, frustrating, a thousand other insults that No One didn’t care to name, but nobody could accuse him of not knowing the things he needed to know. It was a risk, even to look at the neatly scripted vellum, all he had told him was that it was a recipe and nothing more. The man had admitted to spending time in Orlais, and it was a strong move within the grand game to convince someone to brew and drink his own poison.

A month had passed since he had requested the Green-Eyed Boy to look into the Warden Commander’s life, to find something on him. He had no idea how long these things would actually take, and his non-specificity would probably work against him in the case of time. The information would be better as soon as he could get it. Knowing about Oscar had given him some leeway on their relationship, but an affair was easily ended, and he must know that No One had no way of telling his lover about it.

There’s a grunt from Thom as he shifts again, pulling him from his turning thoughts. No One threads his fingers through the greying hair, pulling it back from across his face and tucking it neatly behind his ear. The way he had looked at him last night, the mere thought of it brings a pleasant shudder to his chest. Thom was something else, and now he was another reason to cure whatever had cursed him. For all that No One could offer, he didn’t want it to be sleepless nights and flitting by a full moon. Thom deserved more than that, he deserved better than that.

Which reminds him, as he counts out the days on his fingers, he’ll have to figure out how to excuse himself for the night before the next full moon. Something he didn’t particularly want to do; lying to Thom made him feel guiltier with every turn of his tongue. But it wasn’t as if he could tell Thom what he was without ruining everything they had.

Last night had pushed them over a boundary that they could not go back from. They could move on from it, they could deny it, but neither of them could change the fact that it had happened. No One pulls his fingers through Thom’s hair lazily, he didn’t want to move on from such a man. Physically, he could do with moving, he’d been sat in the same position for the last several hours and it was playing havoc with his back.

The book, useless thing, is left to one side as he shuffles down the bed. Thom rolls over away from the movement, tugging the sheets lazily as they grapple at his hips. He exhales heavily as he settles back into his sleep, and welcomes No One’s arm as it snakes around his waist. His back is lined with the blonde, who places the barest hint of a kiss at the tip of his spine, and pulls himself closer until his nose is assaulted with the soapy smell of Thom’s hair. No One hums contentedly, fingers interlacing with Thom’s own. He wonders if it would be too much of a disturbance to slip out of his breeches, to finally be naked with the other man.

When Thom had traced his scar last night, he had a question posed upon his lips; one that No One didn’t intend to answer fully. Not yet at least. Explaining that the wound had been a result of turning down a job, meant explaining the job, and why he had refused it in the first place. As uncouth as he may be, he wasn’t about to start recalling the time he slept with someone else whilst straddling Thom.

But it hadn’t been that which had worried him. That scar could be lied about easily enough, or simply avoided. No One didn’t have to talk about it, the same as Thom never had to speak about the lines which graced his own torso. It was the scars which grappled at his right thigh. Claw marks from that bastard werewolf, he had bragged it as a bear wound previously, but the words felt sour on his tongue when he thought about lying to Thom like that. He knew Thom would ask about the gouges, they were not smooth and silver like the one on his chest, but like the ones on his face. The one that cut into the skin of his nose, the one that pulled his lips ever so slightly apart so that if you listened closely enough his breathing became the tiniest whistling noise. It was an ugly scar, and an ugly reminder of who he was.

That had been the reason why he had retied his breeches, why he had stopped Thom from pulling them off. The scar upon his chest gave Thom a question to ask, he didn’t want to ruin what was happening in that moment by giving him more questions. No One certainly didn’t want to remind himself that, even though he wasn’t lying to Thom about his past as a chevalier, he was lying to him about how his body changed with the moons. He knew what would come with that. Skyhold had been unsuccessfully hunting the supposed demon wolf for some time, less urgently with the lack of deaths, but still the threat remained. To admit what he was now, was to confess to those murders. To confess that he took coin to take lives, just as Thom had done with the Calliers.

The thought settles unpleasantly in his mind, unwilling to be shaken off or buried as it had been so many times before. He couldn’t sleep with Thom before telling him of Adeline nor of his chevalier past, was this so different? No One tries to convince himself that he had told Thom in a way, he had told him about his nightmares and about his teeth, and that was a large part of what had happened to him. But it wasn’t everything. Regardless of what he thought, and no matter how he tried to find a way through his words, he could not forgive his absence of truth. Thom wouldn’t have slept with him if he knew he was a wolf, would he? It’s a thought to sour the morning that hadn’t begun yet, and for all that he hates that bastard werewolf, he’d admit without it he would never have found Thom despite being the thing to cause all of this turmoil.

No One bites his tongue and carefully slips out of Thom’s bed. He watches as the man shifts again, grunting as he settles back comfortably, and the anxiety of sneaking out leaves No One’s chest. His shirt is found easily enough, and the druffalo wool blanket has had a night of masquerading as a rug; he slips it on his shoulders as he ties the end of his shirt, _Thom’s_ shirt, to keep it secured at his waist. He chews his lip in thought when he wonders of whether or not to take the Mirtha’ghila tome, it would be cruel for Thom to be caught with such a thing in his possession, he grabs it and the wine too. He had already read through it a few times, a few new words would come to him every time, but there remained some that were beyond him. The latch isn’t as loud as usual, No One has had enough practice of sneaking in and out of rooms undetected that it doesn’t bother him any longer.

He stands in the corridor for just a moment, his hand hovering above the outer latch to let himself back in before he scrubs at his face and leaves. His mind wanders as much as his bare feet do, walking the hallways and stairs, finding himself in the courtyard and walking the ramparts. The Inquisition hadn’t yet cleaned away the stains of fire from his old fire pit. For the strangest moment he feels homesick, looking down at the last place he had called home, knowing all that remains in a smudge of soot. Bastard spymaster, he thinks, bitch. Tearing down a man’s home like that, and for what reason? He bites his tongue, sitting in the corner where he had once slept, and loudly picking at the nails on his toes.

Did they know? They knew he was Orlesian, but what else could they have figured out; if they knew what he was then he would already be in a cell. It’s the only thing that brings him comfort as the morning winds begin to pick up. Nobody knew anything about the Family unless you were a customer or dead, there were rumours across Thedas, but most were dismissed as ghost stories. A human fantasy to rival the dwarven Carta or the Antivan Crows, but No One knew they were real and the Inquisition did not. They would not hunt a wolf if they knew it already lurked within their walls.

No One thinks about how he could tell Thom what he was, and whatever reasons come to mind, nothing seems to be a good enough explanation. There were too many connections to other things that he couldn’t tell anyone about. Everything wrong with him, everything that made him who he was today, was because of that one decision. He had only fled into the Korcari wilds because he knew chevaliers weren’t heavily trained on forest navigation, idiot didn’t realise that affected him too.

Leliana’s words had been digging into Lei’s mind ever since she had said them. To believe that the Warden Commander would do such a thing, he had heard the rumours, he had read the stories, he had heard the songs, and they might have all been true. But he had been kind to him, he had taken the time to train with him, to speak with him. Andrastopher had even sat him down with a cup of sweetened tea and asked over his health. Reassuring, fatherly almost.

But if the spymaster was correct then all of that meant nothing, and it had all been a game for Andrastopher to play. Which soured his kindness and filled Lei with guilt. He had seen cruelties like this before, and this was not one of them. Still, it didn’t reassure him in the slightest. With a resigned sniff he decides Andrastopher couldn’t be that kind of man.

His bed, the largest and softest he had ever slept upon, didn’t do much to sway his thoughts. Even with plush sheets, thick blankets, and the promise of an ever-burning fire, it didn’t ease him back to sleep. Instead he throws the sheets over his head and pulls at the magic within him, spawning small shaped bundles of light, watching them drip from his fingertips and float in such a small space. Lei had done this often as a boy, sitting on his own at night, finding a strange comfort in the lights. It made him feel less lonely, and embarrassing as it was to admit, he did like consulting the small things.

“Andruil…” He whispers, biting his tongue and feeling stupid. Andruil wasn’t his goddess, he hadn’t devoted himself to her; it was his mother who had done so. Lei had wanted to follow in her footsteps to become a master hunter, but he wasn’t allowed, too human for such things. Ironically, he thought, he had taken to shapeshifting into the beasts he could not hunt. If he could not join the hunt as a Dalish then he would as a hawk, a hare, a bear.

Lei hadn’t realised how dangerous that had been until his mother had found him in the woods with an arrow in his gut. That was a cruelty of the past, Halenatralan had shot him and left him to die. Halenatralan, the bonded of his mother, who despised him for all that he was. Lei hadn’t ever figured out why the man could hate a child like that, but he hadn’t blamed him. Nobody in the clan wanted to know that shemlen child. He remembers hearing the stories of how the clan wanted to leave him beside a road, a shem would happen upon him soon enough, and the clan wouldn’t bear the burden of short ears.

“Falon’din…” He sighs when the name comes to his lips, remembering the man with the revenant. He had been kind to him, even if the towering corpse had frightened him. The man, for Lei can’t remember his name no matter how he tries, even showed him a great thing of a wolf, trapped inside glyph marked towers to keep everyone safe. It had snarled and snapped, digging at the magic to free itself. The man had asked him if he knew anything of the beasts, for it was no ordinary wolf, but had once been a human, cursed to live out his days as a wild animal. Lei, only twelve years old at the time, could only offer what little he had learnt on shape shifting. The man seemed happier for it regardless.

“Andraste?” He says, feeling more stupid for praying to another goddess that wasn’t his. The half elves didn’t have any gods, he had nobody to pray to for guidance. It was either that or he had too many to ask for assistance, he couldn’t decide which was better or worse. He didn’t even know that much about any of the gods anyway, and these little flares of his own magic were provably real.

Lei feels the magic bump against his skin as he bows his head in thought. He goes over Leliana’s words again; _Andrastopher’s son under Goddard’s command, and now Goddard’s son under Andrastopher’s command,_ was it as so? Had he been reduced to someone’s ammunition yet again? No, he thinks strongly, if he was to be an arrow he would not be fired until it was his choice, and he would find his mark with his own determination and his own path. He throws the sheets off and climbs out of the too big bed, dispelling the small lights and dressing for the day.

The sun hadn’t yet risen and it leaves Skyhold with a feeling of absence as it’s guests still sleep. Lei thinks it more peaceful than anything; loneliness is what you make it. The ramparts, the view from them, is especially nice at sunrise. The smoke in the distance is something unusual, not many other than the guards can say they were awake at such an hour. He can spy the man he had seen here and there in the fortress, the only man to have such a long trailing moustache, and he remembers the amount of times he had been seen with the Warden Commander. Few, but enough to be notable.

Lei scratches at his jaw in thought for a moment, the man might know something about the Warden Commander. He might be just as bad, but surely it was worth a try. Even if it’s fruitless, it’s still better than asking Andrastopher’s son, his name absent from Lei’s memory. That would be far too intruding, and it would be dancing to Leliana’s tune. With a deep breath he sets about walking the ramparts, deciding that he wouldn’t back out no matter what.

The man looks up at the noise of footsteps, closing the heavy book he had in hand and shoving it behind himself. He shuffles back against the tome, leaning against the thing and denying Lei a peek at it. Perhaps he was a mage too, there was a faint smell of lyrium around him most of the time.

“You’re Thom’s friend, aren’t you?” Lei asks, carefully dropping down into the small area. He hadn’t been up here before, the broken ramparts weren’t something he felt too keen walking over, but it was better now they’d repaired it. With all the training he had been doing, and admittedly reading through Grey Warden story books, he hadn’t really found the time to wander up here.

“Of a sort.” He sniffs. “What can I do you for?” He moves to stand up but Lei waves him off. Instead he checks the floor around him, the wind already having blown all the ash and dust up against the walls.

“I couldn’t sleep and saw your fire.” He shrugs and sits down, staring into the small pile of logs dancing ablaze. “Thom’s a good man, helped me become Warden Commander Cousland’s apprentice.” Lei hopes the namedrop isn’t too obvious, there were easier ways to ask certain questions, but he didn’t want to seem so obtuse in his ways. Not if this man was a good friend of the Warden, or a good friend of the spymaster.

“I’m not sure that’s a good thing, kid.” No One huffs, a hand threading back through his hair as he takes a swig of wine. He wipes the mouth of the bottle with his sleeve, knowing full well that he’d been sucking Thom’s cock and drinking from it only a few hours ago, but still feeling the need to be polite enough to offer Lei a drink.

“You too?” He laughs dejectedly, taking the bottle and screwing up his nose at the taste. It reminds him of hangovers none too pleasant.

“Someone else told you the same?” No One takes the bottle back and drums his fingers on the neck. He sits with his legs open, the item between them looking more phallic that he probably knows. It was obvious that Cousland had his enemies within the mountain fortress, one look at that Warden blue uniform and people’s thoughts and their guts turned sour. Everyone had an opinion on them, either you wanted to be one, or you’d rather forget they exist.

“Lady Leliana.” Lei coughs, trying not to look at the image, it’s almost obscene. “She said he was using me, for something against the Herald.” He shrugs and looks away, picking at the loose thread from one of his gloves. It’s ignited between his fingertips, only slightly so as to burn the thread away, but not to cause too much of a visual existence.

“Maybe he is, that’s what noblemen do.” No One huffs, a smile spreading over his lips. He shakes his head in dismay, chewing the inside of his cheek at Lei’s expression. The boy was being serious. “Don’t look so hung up, kid. Spymaster’s a spymaster, you think she got there by being nice?”

“I don’t know who to trust.” Lei admits. No One bites his tongue and takes a swig of wine to distract himself. He might not know who to trust out of the two people, but admitting this to No One, it meant he at least trusted the blonde enough to tell him of his troubles. Or, he thought, perhaps he was the only pair of ears available this early in the morning. More likely the latter, an elf trusting him was an unlikely thing.

“Well, my advice is pretty worthless, but if I was picking sides I’d go with Cousland.” No One says, almost surprised at his own words. He knew where he stood with Cousland, it was a relationship of giving and taking, blackmail included. Whilst the man was cruel and had underhand tactics, or so No One assumed, at least he had been open about some of it. Leliana hadn’t given him anything, not even some sort of offhanded apology from another’s tongue. “He might be a bast- _cunt_ , but at least he didn’t tear down my fucking home.” He gestures around him, and it’s only then that Lei can see the scuff marks upon the stones, forming the faintest memory of a well-built room around them.

“Sorry.” Lei whispers, a smile lingering on his lips at how the other man had tried to disguise his use of the word bastard. Not many had been so considerate. He had gotten used to that over the years, he had been called worse, and after so long things stop having an effect despite the intent.

“It wasn’t your fault.” No One shrugs. He could blame Leliana without any guilt, but an elf offering his condolences when it wasn’t caused by him; No One couldn’t accept that, Lei had no reason to apologise for her actions. A silence settles upon them, filled every few moments by the sloshing of wine or a crow calling out as it was sent from the library tower.

“Can I ask you something?” Lei asks, damned be beating around the bush.

“Shoot.” He says it into the mouth of the bottle, tipping the rest of it into his throat and rolling the empty glass between his palms.

“Why did Lady Leliana think your name was Luin Saile?” He fidgets where he is sat as he says the words. If this man wasn’t an ally of the spymaster then perhaps he’s a friend to be found. Lei reminds himself that he isn’t part of the Inquisition any longer, he had given in his refusal for the guard’s posting, and he was a Grey Warden recruit now.

“What makes you so sure it isn’t?” No One offers him the tiniest smile, and the raising of his dark brows in a twitch.

“Saile is a pretty uncommon name, most people chose to marry out of the lineage when Tello Saile-”

“You’ve met him too then?” No One laughs, cutting the younger man off, “he told that particular story quite a bit.” He must have heard it a dozen or more times in that cell, enough for him to memorise half of it if he had needed to. It changed every time, just enough to stick to the bones of the tale, but with extras added to give it more flare. Tello Saile would have been real, whether the story was true or not anymore was something else entirely.

“He got me arrested, saved me from...” Lei coughs awkwardly, why he felt so at ease talking to him was beyond his own knowledge. Nobody knew that he was a mage, Leliana must have, but he kept that secret close to his chest. “Things.” He adds with a non-committal shrug.

“I met him in Tantervale.” No One offers, blatantly not prying into the younger man’s business. “It was the first name that came to mind when Trevelyan asked me, never thought he’d be one familial step away from him.” He could have made a name up, but what are the odds that the Herald of Andraste could know an Antivan with a lust for fraud and mockery? Larger than he had first thought, evidently.

“That’s why I came here.” He admits. “Was _asked_ here.”

“Hm?”

“To prove you weren’t Luin Saile. Sorry.” His voice trails off, looking away and scratching at his jawline. This man, Lei hadn’t yet gotten his name or he had heard it but he forgotten, didn’t seem too bad. An unusual sense of style, what with the fur draping his shoulders and his barefooted outfit, but not an unusual man.

“No harm done, kid.” No One snorts. The Inquisition wasn’t ever going to believe his name was Luin Saile, he was hardly the most Antivan looking fellow around. “I have to go, you’ll be well on your own?” He stands and stretches, his shoulders popping uncomfortably as he pulls himself back up to the ramparts.

To what lengths would they go to find out who he was, he wonders, and why was it so important. He realises he might have just been a reason to bring Lei here, but that couldn’t explain what else they might know. It only bears down upon him that his time might be shorter than he thinks. If anything, he wouldn’t spend it moping around because he didn’t have the balls to tell Thom he was a bloody werewolf.

“Of course.” Lei stands and offers him the slightest wave, listening to the slap of naked feet on stone fading. He decides to linger for just a while, to watch the sun come up, and when he turns back to sit down beside the fire he notices the tome left behind. The Dalish is read fluently before he can stop himself; _Las’dirthen_. It is not the title of the tome, but rather an old magic scripture to dissuade prying eyes. But he had seen that man reading it, so it must have faded through the years. Or, perhaps that man had been the one to place the ward, perhaps these were his private thoughts come to life.

It takes a few minutes before Lei steels himself enough to pick it up, a small barrier cast on his hands as he did so. Opening it was a whole different set of confidence that he didn’t yet have, but in his curiosity, he turned it over. He expected another warding spell, or a rune or glyph, not a painting of a man he once knew. Arms outstretched beyond the moons, basking in the lunar light, the missing fingers that Lei had tried so hard not to ask about.

A gift for Covetous he said, that being one of the few names that Lei could never forget, indicating to the towering revenant that stood behind him. Lei had slept with his hands tucked neatly between his thighs that night, almost afraid the demon would bite them off in his sleep. It hadn’t happened of course, but being near the revenant made him nervous, even as he got used to it over the few weeks he spent in their company.

The small painting, preserved with much stronger wards than the tome itself, made him wonder just how much danger he might have been in back then. Lei couldn’t have defended himself no matter how strong he was for his age. Against this man, his twin brother, his demon, and his wolf. The anxiety that had built about opening the book is drowned beneath the anxiety of not knowing if his assumptions were correct. Lei rarely forgot a face, especially not one so strangely scarred and tattooed. Those eyes, like inverted blues, Lei would never forget those either.

He misses the sunrise in favour of returning to his room, to hide the tome for when he feels braver. The sun would rise with every day, he could watch it tomorrow or the day after. But this was something else entirely. Something that needed time to be studied, something that needed to be questioned over. He couldn’t fathom why Thom’s friend had been reading it, nor how, if his assumptions were correct and the entire thing was written in Dalish. The man, barefooted, could he too be a half-elf? It wasn’t fair to claim it only on his lack of shoes, but it was a common Dalish fashion, another thing he had been too human for.

The morning sun was dull as it filtered through the small slit in the curtains, but it was enough to wake Thom from his sleep. He scrubs at his eyes the rid them of his fatigue, a smile creeping across his lips at the memories of last night. No One had, he’d done something wonderful with his hips, with his mouth. He bites his own tongue and properly opens his eyes to face the man, his heart falling when he sits up to scan the room when he can’t see him.

Thom pulls the sheets about his waist to cover himself and opens the small bathing chamber; No One isn’t in there either. There would be a reason for it, he reassured himself, he wasn’t so flighty as to leave like that. Thom huffs dejectedly, of course he was. The man’s clothes were gone, so was the inexpensive wine.

He dresses slowly, after washing himself in the bath water of yesterday that hadn’t been thrown out, and sits on the bed thinking for a moment. Thom thought, no, Thom knew things were getting better between them. Whatever fears that No One had were slipping away from him, albeit slowly, but still falling away from him. An anxiety crawls into his gut, had his budding feelings blurred his vision, had he stopped helping No One because he wanted him? Thom chews his lip and slips into his boots.

His thoughts return to the stone he had thrown from the ramparts yesterday, guilt simmering in his gut. Thom might not be as lost as No One was, but the blonde had helped him in a way only he could. The stone had given him a sense of comfort as he travelled, a reminder that No One was there for him, with him.

No One had been a more than pleasant distraction from his own past, from his own bad decisions. It might not have been him who gave him his life back, but he was the one to give him a better reason for staying. Fighting Corypheus for Goddard was one reason, a noble one too, but fighting for No One; even when it meant fighting the man himself, was worthy of recognition in his heart. In his own way, the blonde had even managed to sway the guilted tides of Orlesian venom. Thom was still hated for the Calliers, he still hated himself for it. But those words hurt less and less, knowing there was someone who saw past that, who could wash the blood from his hands if only for a moment.

“Bonjour, Monsieur Rainier.” No One whispers opening the door to Thom’s bedchamber, the Orlesian rolling off his tongue thickly in his natural Royan accent. He’s expecting Thom to still be asleep, and adds a quick question with a cough at the man’s expression, “ça va?” Thom was already up and dressed for the day, and he had awoken without No One there.

“Ça va, bloody idiot.” Thom stands from his bed and ushers him into the room, latching the door shut behind them. “I thought you’d gone, again.” He was starting to think the man had a habit of disappearing whenever he wanted to, there’s comfort to be found in knowing that he was making a habit of coming back too.

“I wanted to take a walk, clear my head, figure some things out.” He shrugs loosely by way of explanation. Originally, he had intended to go to the gardens, following Andrastopher’s commands would be an easy reprieve from facing Thom, but his feet had carried him to his bed chamber. Something of what Lei had said settled in his chest, digging into him with guilt until he stood outside the wooden door to Thom’s room. “I spoke to Lei.”

“And?” _A good man_ , No One remembered, he didn’t deserve being pulled around with lies like he had been.

“And, I don’t know. I realised that, for the first time in my life, sex is complicated.” He laughs pitilessly. Dozens of one-night lovers, that one time with whatever her name was, and an affair that crumbled because he had been too obsessed with the elves. “I’m rather fond of you, Thom. Blindingly fast as this courtship is going, I can say I wouldn’t rather be with anyone else.”

“Courting, are we?” Thom’s laughter bubbles from his chest, grabbing for No One’s waist and pulling him closer to him. It’s a comforting revelation from the man, and it flutters in Thom’s chest like nothing has before. “How good are you at cooking eggs?”

“Shit, I’ve eaten a few raw.” He laughs loudly at the way Thom’s face screws up and he reels back with disgust. “I’ll send your parents a dowry and we can be wedded in the summer.” He adds, pushing loose hair behind Thom’s ears.

For a moment he thinks of the kind of courtship he could have offered as Lord Baroulx, void, even as Duke Baroulx if it came to it. The countless wealth they had, the estates, the horses, the merchants, the farmland. He could have had Thom carved in marble and bound in brass, a thousand matrimony rings for a thousand days and more. There would be little he could not offer as Lord Baroulx, now he could only offer less of what he couldn’t offer before. Little to nothing is what he had to his lack of name. Less than nothing he believes, Cousland has him bound one way and he’ll never be able to afford to pay the Piss Merchant off no matter how hard he works. Every job he completes makes him just that bit more valuable.

“I can’t offer you much, if I’m ever arrested I’ll have you recompensed from my family’s coffers, but until then I’d like to stay here, with you.” No One whispers, his jaw tensing with nerves, holding Thom’s stare with his scarred eyes. He’s beautiful. Sad eyes weighted with age, a nose broken a few shy of too many times, heart-shaped lips hiding in a thrilling beard.

“I don’t want coin, No One.” He says, thumbs stroking through the thin fabric of No One’s shirt. It’s a comforting sensation that he can feel the man pressing into, shifting just that little bit closer.

“You just want me? That’s easily done.” He snorts, glad for the chance to take them both away from the more serious tone they had fallen into. Though, it feels like a lie upon his tongue, hiding behind badly placed humour. “But, not right now.” He admits, unaware of the words that fall from his lips.

“Last night,” Thom starts, his words trailing off as if it were a question, but without enough form to become one.

“Was too soon, I think.” His voice is barely there, not afraid, but fearful with anxiety.

“Oh, I thought it was,” Thom swallows, looking away from the other man with shame, “mutually consented.”

“It was, don’t misunderstand, I wanted you last night and I still want you.” No One cups Thom’s bearded jaw and brings him back to face him, desperate not to be misheard. “I’ve just, I have-” The words fail to erupt from him, desperate as he is to explain himself. He bites his tongue as he’s interrupted.

“Ser Rainer, my apologies.” A voice calls, followed by the flighty footsteps of a scout who wasn’t Caldwell entering his room. No One steps away from him, a hand stroking back through his hair and turning away. He felt far too vulnerable, and it was something only Thom should see. “You’re late for the debriefing session in the war room, Ser.” She offers a bow but obviously doesn’t intend to leave without him.

“Bugger, No One-” Thom bites, turning back to face him, unsure of the steps he’s taking, whether or not to heed the Inquisitor’s call or work through No One’s tied tongue.

“Go, Thom, war does not wait for the love of men.” No One says it without thought, waving the other man away as he reaches for him. So easily had the words of his family slipped from his lungs, a promise to return from the countless wars every Ser Baroulx fought in, and a reason for them to leave in the first place.

“What?” Thom stalls in his steps, turning back to face the blonde, already beginning to stretch out upon the bed. Those words, he had heard them before, falling from Goddard’s mouth in a mocking laughter of them. To hear them again is odd, to hear them from No One; a man who had nothing to do with the Inquisitor, was beyond unusual.

“Nothing it’s just an old saying,” He scratches his head and huffs with the barest hint of laughter, too embarrassed for any further explanation, “go, you’re already late.”

Thom nods slowly in his agreement, motioning for the scout to lead the way. It was odd that the meeting was so early in the morning, and to be late when it was only past sunrise, it was completely out of routine. He wasn’t about to complain at any rate, the sooner it was done the better apparently, made for good record keeping for whatever future might come.

He leaves No One in his room, accompanied only by the fire crackling to one side. It pops every so often as the logs split, crumbling under the weight of the flames. He scrubs at his face to wipe away his grin, a nervousness settling in his chest. The words he had wanted to say had failed him, though he wasn’t intent on saying he was a wolf; that wasn’t vague enough to keep him contented. There had to be a comfortable line between telling Thom the truth, and not telling him everything, which wasn’t going to cause him to feel so guilty.

It’s something to think over. _Courtship_ was something to think over as well. He feels absurdly childish, as if he had just asked a crush to the annual Wintersend ball. A drink is needed, a trip to the tavern and a bottle to keep him company in the gardens. He writes a quick note to Thom on an unopened letter, after disappearing this morning he feels as if he owes it to the man; and leaves the room, feeling much lighter than before.

No One pulls his lengthy hair into a braid, willing the strands to conform if he’s to spend his day in the garden. It’s not the neatest thing, he picks at a few strands to stand loose, little wisps of hair to deny the braid it’s neatness. His mind pulls him back to when he used to braid Adeline’s hair, fond memories, ones that wouldn’t be ruined. It brings him a comfort to know he could talk to Thom about his daughter, whether the man would want to know or not was something else.

“Warden Commander Cousland.” Lei says as he approaches. He knows the man likes to stand upon the gatehouse and watch the comings and goings of people in the fortress. It wasn’t to Lei’s knowledge but Andrastopher also liked the proximity to Commander Cullen, to remind him of how the templar had acted during the blight; to remind him that Andrastopher knew. The man was absent from his rooms this morning, he had seen him leaving when he returned from hunting in the night. “If you’re not busy, I’d like to spar some more.” He stands beside him, his back straight and his hands clasped behind him.

After the conversation with Thom’s friend this morning he felt more at ease with his decision, despite the oddity that he found with the tome, it didn’t sway what he had said before. Leliana had already proved that she would use him, bringing him here to identify someone, and it didn’t reassure Lei’s trust in any way. If the Warden Commander had decided to use him as well, then he would deal with that when he knew it was set in stone, with irrefutable evidence on the matter. For now, he still wanted to be a Grey Warden, and he still wanted to be Andrastopher’s apprentice.

“I thought you had found a keen sparring partner in your sister. Is she not available?” Andrastopher says, not turning away from viewing the bridge. He is leaning on his elbows to overlook the sight, bent at the hips to accommodate his height in his position. Lei and Twyla had been getting along far better than he thought they would have, especially with how Fulton had reacted to such a thing. He supposed that just how it was with siblings; Fergus had always been better at charming the nobles. He hadn’t even been there most of the time, too gangly and awkward, too afraid of hitting his head on low hanging chandeliers.

“She’s with the Inquisitor, family business, apparently.” He shrugs, the views are rather breath taking. They had both been ready to spar this morning, but she was politely swept away by her mother, whom Lei couldn’t bring his eyes to meet. It wasn’t his place to force something like this, he didn’t have any blood-relation to her, and he had seen her denial as much as he had seen Goddard’s on that day.

“Aren’t you family.” He hums. It’s not quite posed as a question, but Lei answers it regardless.

“No, and you know I’m not.” Sadness creeps into his tone, and he scratches his jaw to will it away.

“You’re Goddard’s son, a sightless man could see that.” Andrastopher turns away from the bridge, standing to his full height and restfully rolling out his shoulders. Lei has to angle his head up to speak to him, a comfortable difference to how things were with clan Mi’Durgen. “Perhaps you don’t want him to be, you’d rather this hadn’t happened. But it has, it is an unchanging fact, the only thing you can do is accept it, and choose whether to act upon it or not.”

“What would you do?” Lei asks. Andrastopher thinks of his own son for a moment. Maxence had spent his youth in Ferelden, with visits to Orlais to spend time with the Moirierre’s. His accent was changeable, speaking in thick Fereldan to his father and swift Orlesian with his mother. They had both agreed, with the state of animosity that still remained in Ferelden, that Maxence would live a better life in Orlais. He would not put his son in unnecessary danger because some Fereldans had it in their heads that Orlesians were all pigs to be slaughtered.

At that time Andrastopher had wished that he had fought for them to stay, or had gone with them, something so that they might be together. It would have been too awkward, with their recent divorce. He can imagine how people might have seen them; Annette courting with her ex-husband so close at hand. But with what happened in the coming months, Howe’s betrayal, the blight, becoming a Grey Warden, Maxence had been perfectly safe with Annette and her new husband. Something he was thankful for, even if it had eroded a valley between them.

“I’d ask myself why I didn’t correct the Warden Commander when he called Lady Twyla my sister.” He states, wondering whether Lei realised that he was becoming more of a part of the family with every word he said.

“That’s different.”

“Because she’s kind?” He asks, almost as if he means to scold the young man, “or because you need to remind yourself you’re related?” It’s an accusation thrown at Lei that he doesn’t quite expect. Twyla is fourteen years older than he, married with four children, and foremost they share the same father, no matter how he wishes to deny it. He steps back shaking his head, the thought too unpleasant not to react to.

“I don’t like her like _that_.” Lei says, his face pinching uncomfortably at the thought. “That’s, _no_ , we’re…” He gestures with his hands, unable to bring himself to say the word-

“Related?” Andrastopher supplies, if the man was anything but monotone, Lei would say he would be rather smug with his words.

“I don’t know what to do.” He whispers, hands coming up to scratch at the back of his neck. The thoughts returning him to the issue with his newfound father was a good enough distraction for what he had come across this morning. But that tome was something that he couldn’t confide in with the Warden Commander.

“Accept who you are.” Andrastopher says, repeating the words his mother had said to him when he was younger. He could not change the staggering height which had only affected him, an apparent cause for concern for the healers, and he could not change the face he was gifted by the Maker. People, she had told him, were always inclined to judge on what they saw, and then upon what they knew. They would have little care for the soul inside the man they could not see.

“I know who I am.” He huffs with laughter.

“You’re a bastard born, elven-blooded man. To some you’re a knife-ear meant to deceive, to others you’re a stain upon your lineage, you’re the forgotten child of the Herald of Andraste only to here to reap what fame and glory you can.” Andrastopher says, stepping closer to Lei and towering above him. His words like bile dripping from his throat. He tries to take a step back but a hand gripping his shoulder forces him in place. Lei tenses under the grip, fearful of what might be to come.

To know that the Warden Commander had felt this way, to know what the man truly thought he was, how he truly saw him. It coiled in his gut like venom. Andrastopher was supposed to be his ally, someone who looked out for him, who gave him a chance to live as someone else. It is only when he stills that those same hands come to grip at his jaw gently, tilting the young man’s face up to look him in the eye.

“You’re also handsome and intelligent, with a strong arm and a stout heart.” Andrastopher’s words are so pure and untainted, said strongly but barely louder than a whisper. “You have skill in battle and are eager to defend, unwilling to be broken, and with capabilities which only seem to grow and to impress,” for a moment Duncan’s reprimand comes to him, and he echoes to words of a man long dead, “you are a worthy and skilled recruit.”

“I, I-” Lei finds his throat swelling, struggling to swallow. It feels almost romantic, and for a moment he wonders if the Warden Commander intends to kiss him. He wonders whether the man saw him glance at his thin scarred lips hidden behind an untamed beard, though he hopes he did not.

“The world will find the worst in you, be sure you’re the first to do so.” He says, and drops his hands from around Lei’s jaw. “And, when you’ve figured that out, everything else will be far easier. Including getting to know your father’s family.” He takes a few steps away, expecting Lei to follow, “do you still wish to spar?” A sharp whistle is heard as he calls his mabaris to follow, one nudging himself into Lei’s legs to push him forward. 

“I, yes, of course, yes.” He calls, jogging a few steps to catch up to the Warden Commander, wary of stepping on the paws of the mabari that bounces around him. The conversation had thrown him. Before they had only spoken of simple things, nothing meaningless, but of training and proper grip, how well he was adjusting to Skyhold, if there was any bother with anyone else. It made him feel cared for, to know that someone was looking out for him, making sure he was safe. Yet, Leliana had dampened the feeling. The familiarity that Lei had felt, if she was right then it was all false.

He looks forward at the Warden Commander, pointing commands to his mabaris, ushering them to go play by themselves. It’s one that sits happily beside Lei’s feet, bum wiggling in the grass to emphasise the wagging short stub of his tail.

“Go on, Oaklain.” Lei nudges him with the toe of his boot, and the dog bounds off to chase after his family, barking loudly as they roll in the snow. Andrastopher catches the small moment between the two, but he hides his acknowledgement well. Lei doesn’t seem to understand exactly what has just happened, and far be it for him to point it out to the young man.

Oaklain, the youngest of his three mabaris, was the only one not to have chosen him. Even along his travels Oaklain had nary found someone he deemed worthy of following, and so he stayed with his brother Holden, and their mother Everleigh. Both of which had chosen Andrastopher as their own. All of them had been studded from the mabari that had travelled with him through the blight, and though he wouldn’t admit it, every time one of those dogs left to follow another it hurt him deeply. As if he was losing Braegon all over again.

But, he thought quietly, as he readjusted his grip upon his sparring weapon, Lei was a good man to follow. He only hoped that the young man would survive the Joining. With the slightest bow to agree that the sparring would begin, he decides he’ll take the group of recruits to the closest congregation of darkspawn soon. If Oaklain was already deferring to Lei’s judgement, then he had already been chosen, and he would not see them grow close in order to take that away.

That evening, because Thom is kept after the debriefing to talk about exactly what Michel de Chevin had said, and he spends most of his day talking to Leliana about it. She dissects his words; there had been an ally to be found in Michel, an ally they had lost to Emperor Gaspard. There wasn’t any blame to be found but it made Thom feel guilty nonetheless. When he had asked why Cullen had been the one to lead the debriefing session, she was tight-lipped, redirecting their conversation back to Michel’s words. She doesn’t show any expression over what Thom can recall, nothing to indicate what she might do about the information. Her lack of output makes him worry for the man.

Goddard’s absence too brought a concern to Thom’s chest. The Inquisitor liked to go over these things himself; mostly because it allowed him to reflect on actions taken and improve any teamwork they had on the battlefield, but also because it gave him a reprieve from all the nobles who eagerly waited for a moment of attention. He thought it might have been the man’s broken arm, with the mark it was anyone’s guess as to what it was doing to him.

Cullen had made him feel like shit too. The commander didn’t trust him, and it’d be a day far gone in the future until he did. Thom was to blame for that. Bull had a grin spread across his face that he flashed at Thom when he entered, he must have seen them sneak out of the tavern, he knew and whilst it didn’t bother him, it was Thom’s private business. Only made worse when Cullen caught on to the several innuendos that filled the war room. Dorian hadn’t looked too impressed, though whether that was due to Bull’s awful jests or specifically the man that Thom had spent the night with, was beyond him. He wasn’t inclined to ask either, last night was thrilling, but it wasn’t a memory to be shared with the war room.

Bull told him he was proud of him, again, for getting back on the horse, _again_. He promises to buy him a drink, and it reminds him of the times he spent bragging about his conquests back in Orlais. As insensitive as that was in the past, he can’t help but laugh into his words as he vaguely answers Bull’s questions. He feels a delight just thinking about it. The conversation this morning didn’t evade his thoughts either, both the uncontainable joy that radiated from the blonde, and the fragile steps into foreign territory.

He returns to his bed chamber, on the off chance that No One was still there, and finds a note upon the stack of letters he was yet to read. Thom pulls the string away that binds the letters, flipping through them carefully. With a pinch to his brows he looks at the writing upon one of them, scripted elegantly in looping swirls, just like the note he had received from No One. He holds them carefully together, trying to compare the lettering. A huff bubbles from his chest, No One had sent a letter after all, he thinks fingering open the wax seal and skimming it quickly. At the bottom he sees the signature, that large curling N, and sets it to one side. He’d read it later.

Thom finds him in the garden, saying a farewell to Sister Nelda with a kiss to the cheek as she spots Thom from across the way. He waves at her and she offers him the slightest curtsy, as much as one can in the thicker chantry robes, before taking her leave. She had joy splashed across her face, a sort of radiating glow about her.

“She’s leaving Skyhold.” No One says, shifting on the bench and allowing Thom to sit beside him. He pats the seat and angles his body to face the other man entirely. Kieran is still in the gardens, he supposed to be watching him, but for the moment the Warden Commander isn’t the most important person. The wind still runs through Skyhold, and it buffets their hair awkwardly. He thinks the braid suits the other man in a way; it doesn’t hide the heaviness of his jaw, nor the slight underbite he has. Small ears, Thom thinks absentmindedly, No One has strangely small ears.

“You’ll miss her?” Thom asks, watching as she stops to talk to another, ushering them inside of the small private chantry the mountain fortress housed. Whoever it was wept, clutching at the sister for support in whatever they were going through.

“She’s one of the few people who’d give me the time of day, she’s one of the few in the chantry who’s there to make things better for others.” He sighs. Sister Nelda was one of the better Sisters in the order. Some, and he knew many, were only there to further themselves. If they couldn’t get recognition as the heir or the spare, then they could rise within the ranks of the chantry quite easily. There was power to be found in becoming Grand Cleric, or even Divine as things stand now. He had heard the spymaster was a contender for the title, and he silently hoped she wouldn’t be chosen.

“Why is she leaving?” He turns back to No One, glancing at the smile barely there upon his lips. The man had few friends in the fortress, more than he thought he had but still not that many. He can remember how he felt when Sera had been forced to leave, someone walking out of your life, it’s harder than most know.

“Some Mother or other has requested her in northern Orlais.” He shrugs, her explanation had been long winded; her eagerness slipping into her voice. No One was happy for her, but wounded to lose a friend. “She’s excited, reckons she’s a chance of getting invited to the imperial wedding.”

“Oh?” Thom says, his voice wavering with the barest hint of laughter. He can imagine whilst that list would be long, it would be entirely exclusive. Though he hadn’t heard much about it, apart from only Emperor Gaspard knew who his bride-to-be was.

“ _Choir_.” He laughs, patting Thom’s thigh and grinning, he looks away a moment, and returns to look at him with sadness on his features. “Nelda asked if I would go with her.” He pauses a moment, not a fraction too long, before his face breaks into a grin. “I’m taking the piss, I told her I had other commitments, and if I was ever in Orlais I’d stop by.”

“Bastard.” Thom swats at No One’s arm and huffs with relief. He was glad to know they could make jests about such things, but it didn’t stop his chest from beginning that dull ache he had felt before. No One’s breathless laughter keeps him smiling. His arm rests on the bench behind Thom, crossing his legs as he sits and leaning closer to him. Thom’s hand falls upon No One’s thigh, squeezing gently, and remaining there without fault or issue.

“But, to answer your first question, I will miss her.” He admits, she had been the one to bring him here originally. Of course, he came on Thom’s promises, to be a better man, but he had travelled with Sister Nelda. No One can remember the look of concern the others in the chantry had given her, travelling alone with such a man, they’d thought he’d kill her for her coin purse or worse. He hadn’t taken offense to it, he didn’t exactly clean up well back then, and the jangling of his chains was a loud enough sound.

But those few short weeks of travelling together, it was peaceful. Anyone who thought to harm the sister decided against it with No One sticking close to her side. A man so scarred and crass, such an unsavoury character wasn’t to be tangled with. He would have fought to defend her if anything like that came to happen, but it never came to pass. Being called Brother Eustace was a kindness as well, to think he could come close to the divinity that was the real Brother Eustace, it gave him something to aspire to.

“What about you?” No One asks.

“I can’t say I know her that well.” Thom says, he must have only met her a few times in Skyhold, he wasn’t so religious that he came to the chantry that regularly.

“Not Sister Nelda, the Trevelyan woman, Tilda? Tansy?” He laughs, of course he can remember her name, he had heard it often enough this morning. But that didn’t mean he wanted to give her any respect for it, in his eyes she hadn’t done much to warrant it. Being born into nobility doesn’t give you the right for it anyway, he knows that far too well.

“Lady Twyla.” He corrects, “she’s leaving?”

“I heard a rumour, she’s going tonight with a dozen or so guardsmen, taking her family too.” No One raises his eyebrows at his own words, emphasising them with a curiosity unanswered.

“Do you know why?” Thom asks, Twyla didn’t seem like she was intent on leaving yesterday. Perhaps that was why she had been rushing through Skyhold, trying to gather things up for her journey, but surely, she would have said something. Even just in passing, they were friends after all. He chews his cheek, was it even any of his business.

“The rumours lose their consistency there.” He shrugs, he had heard several reasons, none of them seemed particularly plausible, but then nobles could be as surprising as ever. “Apparently there were arguments last night, not sure who exactly, but it was the Trevelyans.” Some people had claimed it was marital problems, some claimed it was family rivalries, some claimed strange things that even No One didn’t want to hear. There were some things that people should never cross, no matter the coin you had nor the standing, some things were just that bit morally wrong.

“How do you know this?” He leans in closer, his voice quieter than before.

“I’ve been sitting in the gardens for most of the day surrounded by Orlesian nobles speaking very loudly.” No One nods in a vague direction. Even with the weather still so cold, more so with the wind that had been rushing through the fortress all day, people still flocked outside. “Most of them blame your Herald, he hasn’t been seen all day.” No One wasn’t fluent in Fereldan, nor in Marcher, but he knew enough to pull together a few words. Some of which being _Trevelyan_ , _fight_ , and _yesterday_.

“I’m going to go see him.” Thom says, a frown settling over his features; something wasn’t right. Fulton had already fled the fortress, and now Twyla was leaving? That didn’t suit her, he knew she loved her father, and to go like this must have meant something big had happened. He pats No One’s hand gently, squeezing it as he stands. The blonde lets him go with a nod, though his hand lingers in Thom’s own for as long as it can, trying to keep them connected for as long as he could.

No One didn’t like it, Thom at the Inquisitor’s beck and call. But that was Thom’s choice to make, and it was unfair for him to weigh in on such decisions, Thom hadn’t ever tried to stop him from doing anything. Not anything good at least, the man had tried, and succeeded, to make him stay, and No One had to gracefully accept that Thom could lead in these things; he seemed to know what he was doing. With a sigh he turns back to face Kieran, the young boy with his nose buried in a tome. For a moment he feels as if he has forgotten something, but he ignores it, focusing on the lingering heat in his fingers from Thom’s hand instead.


	40. Buried

Thom hadn’t gotten much information from Goddard. He hadn’t even been able to speak to the man, and his wife had been vague in her answers. Stating simply that he was to be left alone, and that whatever rumours he had heard were likely to be untrue. Goddard might wear the title of Inquisitor, but he was her husband firstly, and she would not let work, no matter it’s importance, tear away at him. It worried him beyond what he would admit. The Herald was the only chance of saving Thedas, he was the only one who could close the rifts, without him, what hope was there?

It gnaws at his mind over the following days, up until he sees the man walking through Skyhold with Madame Vivienne beside him. They’re deep in conversation, wandering towards the mage tower, as if Goddard hadn’t been hiding from the world for the past six days. He’s almost posturing as he walks the courtyard, hiding whatever had ailed him before. Thom still doesn’t know what it was, and neither did anyone else from what No One told him. It wouldn’t be Twyla, Thom decides, she had left for different reasons.

He had managed to catch her just before she went; ushering Gaarwine into the carriage despite her son’s protests about how he wanted to stay within the sky castle. Twyla had been polite in her words, a red face from rushing three children together for a long journey, and trying desperately to keep composure. She had said something vague to resemble something of reason, all Thom had heard was that she was going home because she had to. He wished her good fortune on the road and saw her off. The soldiers flanked the carriage as it went on its way, all bearing the heraldic owl of the Trevelyans, reminding Thom of how noble Twyla actually was. Odd that he manages to find himself in such company wherever he went, or perhaps that was just Skyhold; a place that was by no means lacking in nobility.

No One is beside him as he leans on the sparring circle, they’ve been watching Lei training with Andrastopher. The blonde knocks him from his memories with a rushed inhale of breath, Thom turns to catch Lei staggering back from having a boot in his chest. It’s strange how much the Warden Commander uses his legs in a fight, he wouldn’t expect it of a nobleman, but he was lengthy in that area. Lei was getting better, there was little doubt of that, especially not as the telling bruise had flourished across Andrastopher’s cheek so recently.

There had been a few choice comments about fighting with swords from a foreign guardsman, an Orlesian had said it naturally, and there was no mistake in Andrastopher’s form when he knocked the man unconscious in one swing. He had no utterance of apology on his tongue, and the guards of Skyhold were there quickly enough to stop a brawl from breaking out. Lei had snorted out his laughter when Andrastopher informed him of the words, somehow the Warden Commander’s lack of emotion only made the thing funnier. But Lei hadn’t been the only man to hear, No One and Thom had spared one another a glance, and from upon the ramparts even the Inquisitor had heard such shouts of the double entendre.

Lei had a knack for fighting like this, he had seen his valiant nature back in Crestwood, always the first to rush in to defend whoever he was with. Even now the boy stood defensively, his posture wasn’t there to intimidate. Thom is reminded of the Inquisitor in that way; both men bore shields and were trained to step in to defend with them, more inclined to save a life than to take one on the battlefield. He had learnt that style of fighting as well, during his days as a captain in the Orlesian army. A sort of reminiscence about what he could have done under Ser Geoffroy’s guidance. But Lei was no chevalier, and even Thom saw the way No One winced at the boy’s footing sometimes.

Thinking about the life he could have had if he became a chevalier, not officially, because they wouldn’t allow some village boy from Markham to stand on par with the elite of Orlais, but to be one in everything but name. To be a champion to bear a standard for House Rainier, naturally they didn’t have a heraldry nor a coat of arms, but that would have changed with time and success. He wonders if that would have changed things with No One, would he have met him before he forsook his name, would he even have spent time trying to help him, or would he have cast him aside in the pride he used to have. Thom dispels the thoughts, they were different people than who they were ten, fifteen, twenty years ago. He wouldn’t change meeting him now for anything else.

Things, courtly things so to speak, had settled nicely between the two men. No One had taken to sleeping on the settee in Thom’s room; he had woken him with the shuffling of his night terrors, clutching to the wooden post of the bed with laboured breathing. Thom had thought the man was being strangled, jumping from the bed with such force that it woke No One from his dream. They hadn’t spoken about it, not at length. He had explained that they were violent, and speaking of them made them all the more real. Neither of them slept that night. Wine was drank, and their unsure whispers had turned to hushed laughter, knowing that others slept in the rooms adjacent to Thom’s.

No One would sometimes be absent when Thom awoke, the man was prone to fancying a walk in the early hours of the morning. He couldn’t find fault with it, but the subject did make him wonder whether he would notice someone sneaking in if he didn’t hear someone sneaking out.

It had mostly gone back to how it was before. Gentle touches, reassuring looks, the odd suggestive lilt to a voice, and a kiss or three. The whole thing, it was peaceful, the tides of desire shifting with every moment, but under control. They were happy, both of them, they made each other happy. It was evident enough to see. The smiles that bloomed across their faces when they saw each other. They were amidst those few weeks of courtship whence everything was divine. Thom can imagine them looking at each other like unabashed adolescents, embarrassing really, but it didn’t stop either of them.

No One had kissed him one morning, full of hunger, it had been a nice way to greet him when he awoke. But hands had wandered and he watched as the blonde chewed his lip as he pulled away. It made Thom wonder if there was something keeping him from doing what he wanted to do, the man was so full of secrets it wouldn’t surprise him. But he wouldn’t push, he had promised himself that, and he would wait for the time when No One felt able to tell him whatever he needed to. For now, he was happy to ignore the heat in his gut and spend his mornings eating whatever Cabot had served them.

He’s taken from his thoughts when he hears a cuffed yelp from Lei who reals back clutching the underside of his chin. The Warden Commander turns and circles the younger man, standing opposite him to wait until he is ready to begin again. Lei might be improving, few wouldn’t when training with Andrastopher, but it was a slow race; though not one he could lose. The boy was finding his place in Skyhold. Though Thom didn’t hold any resentment towards the Herald over him anymore, he hadn’t yet told Lei as such. It’s something he realises he should, but knows it isn’t his place to do so; it hadn’t been back then and it still wasn’t now.

Thom had wondered, as would so many others, whether sparring with a man who was so unnaturally tall would affect how he fought with others. Lei had voiced his question once, in private to the Warden Commander, and he didn’t see any flicker of emotion across him. Andrastopher had told him it might, so long as Lei wasn’t fighting in the dark he should be fine, but that was something they would come to eventually. It’s an event he hadn’t thought of before, though knowing he would be fighting in the Deep Roads at some point, it should have been rather expected. The Warden Commander had mentioned that Lei would have to spar with people of varying heights soon, promising to introduce him to a grey warden named Oghren; one of the finest dwarven berserkers he had ever met.

Lei nods to him in the sparring ring, waiting for the other man to return the favour before they begin again. Heavy clacking of sparring swords sings as loud as ever, more so the sounds of exertion that Lei emits. The Warden Commander looks to be growing tired, but he keeps a straight face, stopping the natural twist of one’s features when they lunge into an attack.

Andrastopher seems to step back from his assault, giving Lei the space he needed to start his own, to work on his offensive strikes. It’s more obvious that the younger man needs more training in this area, he doesn’t have the typical killing blows that men are taught at a young age. How to find the gaps in the armour, and how to manipulate an opponent into showing them. Andrastopher parries with grace, spinning until the wooden sparring sword catches under Lei’s arm hard enough to birth a hefty bruise.

No One spies a familiar ginger-haired scout making his way across the ramparts, it grabs his attention despite how he tries to study Andrastopher’s fighting technique. He had figured him out after a minute-long brawl with Fulton, but No One couldn’t really place him anywhere. It was too violent for noble duelling, and wasn’t back-alley enough for street brawling, too graceful for fisticuffs and not performative enough for fencing.

It’s the first time he had seen Caldwell in days, he has an ability in hiding when he doesn’t wish to be found, and No One isn’t going to let him get away this time. He jogs after him hurriedly, waving off Thom’s protesting shout as he strides up the steps two at a time calling out for Caldwell to stop. The younger man quickens himself, eager to outrun his pursuer, but No One has longer legs, and is unburdened by a heavy satchel. It wasn’t exactly the fairest chase, but No One can’t remember ever playing on just grounds.

“Caldwell, how are you? Fast as ever.” He laughs, his breath staggered as he leans against the doorway to block the other man. Despite how they both lived in Skyhold, Caldwell had a knack for avoiding him, probably made easier by his ever-busy schedule. Of course, it wouldn’t have been hard to slip by him. Thom had been the centre of his attention for the past week, and when he was without the man, he was fulfilling his borderline stalking duties of the young prince Kieran.

“I’m well.” Caldwell says, glancing down and away from the other man. He was still mortified by his actions from before, trying to kiss him like that when he knew that Wystan was otherwise inclined. Perhaps he still had some feelings for him, but he squashed those as he knew they would not be returned. “I have letters to deliver.” He bows his head somewhat, though only out of politeness, and pushes passed Wystan. Slightly put out when the man doesn’t seem to want to let up on his plan.

“I know, I just wanted to say that you don’t need to avoid me.” No One shrugs, relenting his blockade and following him on his rounds, refusing to let the boy go without repairing one of the few friendships he had. “And to say thank you, for sending the letter to Thom.” That had been an interesting conversation to have with the man, when he produced the letter with a bubble of laughter. Not only did Thom feel ridiculous for worrying all that time, but No One had been sleeping in that room with the letter only a few feet away believing that it had gone to the Emprise du Lion.

Thom had read it aloud, laughing at No One’s attempts to stop him. He had rambled in the letter, and it was obvious when voiced, and it brought the kind of embarrassment you have when you’re trying to impress a lover. It had been a kind thing to read, and the laughter had paved the way for quiet amusement and silly repetitions of lines that No One had written. It was a joyful afternoon, and No One promised to return the letter mocking in kind.

His words, more so his tone, stop Caldwell in his tracks. Wystan seemed so open and honest, more so than he ever had before. It brought a pleasant ache to his chest; one born of attraction and a reflection of how the man must have felt about Thom. Caldwell looks up tentatively, his eyes not lingering on one spot for long, and chewing his tongue before speaking.

“You’re not mad?” He asks. Caldwell had done stupid things before, stupid things that had gotten him into a lot of trouble, and he had fully expected this to be one of them. The reason why was something he didn’t know. He had punched Wystan before, and the man had just staggered away without a care, without any retaliation, and Caldwell had felt such guilt at such an action. But the other man wasn’t bothered in the slightest, a bloodied lip wasn’t much of an injury, Caldwell’s knuckles bore the worst of it.

“We all get drunk and do choice things.” No One shrugs, “I mean we’re, we’re friends, yes?” His words are stuttered, and he chews on his cheek when he waits for an answer.

“Yes.” Caldwell says, his voice tinged with the barest hint of laughter; Wystan’s voice was hopeful, nearly childish. An almost silence settles between them, No One doesn’t know exactly what to say after such a heartfelt admittance, and Caldwell seems to be thinking on his own.

Wystan was a confusing man. There was something about him which made him look both dangerous and completely without the ability to harm someone, perhaps like a butter knife, it’s still a weapon but hardly the kind of thing to threaten someone with. He no longer dressed in the rags Caldwell had first seen him in. The fresher clothes and the fresher scent made him seem more like himself, and it was a strange thing to think, but it was a thought the young man could not shake. Wystan, the man in rags, wasn’t the true Wystan.

“How’s the training going?” No One asks, motioning for Caldwell to continue on his rounds, he wouldn’t want the boy getting into trouble on his account. Not at the moment at any rate, later perhaps over a bit of fun, but not when they’re only just getting back to how they used to be.

“Better, Captain Rickan says I’m improving.” He lets his pride show as he speaks. The training was rough, and it got harder every day and everyone began to improve. Caldwell wasn’t the best, but he wasn’t the worst; he could take pride in that, even as many were able to beat him when they sparred. That would lessen with time, he knew, with every training session he was one step away from those who had never sparred in their life. Every day he became more and more like a true soldier, a true scout.

“They do?” No One doesn’t even know who Captain Rickan is.

“In his own way.” He shrugs, pulling at the satchel across his shoulders; the bag felt lighter every day even though he still seemed to have the same amount of deliveries to make. Captain Rickan still didn’t like him, he still called him Runner, as if to prove that he couldn’t ever be a soldier. But there had been something in the way he had scolded him lately, as if he wasn’t telling him off any longer, but trying to give him a direction to go in. It gave him a confidence he hadn’t had when he had started this training.

He had even found friends exercising alongside him. A young bard named Garron from Starkhaven, he had a noble air around him, but he was more frightened of a sword than most. Caldwell had been the only one who wanted to spar with him, both of them as useless as each other; they had grown to trust each other and had fallen into a comfortable sparring rhythm. There were others too, Leena, Mitch, Arah, they all made the training that much more bearable. Runner was a nickname that had stuck to him, but they said it with affection, and a familiarity that was only found amongst friends. Leena had told them she preferred to be called _Rats,_ and they had all dubbed Garron as _The Stark_ , because there were very few soldiers from Starkhaven in the Inquisition. Apparently, that had something to do with the Champion of Kirkwall and the Prince of Starkhaven, but Garron was sore on the subject.

“I could be a proper scout one day.” He grins, his chest puffing with pride. Caldwell could imagine it now, being able to wear vallaslin for the first time in his life, to have earned it all by himself. He had spent a great many years trying to figure out exactly who he would devote himself to, there were no gods of cowardice after all. Andruil came to mind easily, if he could prove himself to be a worthy hunter then he would honour her, perhaps Dirthamen, he was a scout carrying secrets and the like. He wonders who his little sister, Gheyna, had devoted herself to in the time he had been absent.

“You are a proper scout.” No One snorts.

“I deliver letters in a fortress filled with guardsmen.” Caldwell seems to deflate as he says the words. Regardless of his title he wasn’t a true scout, a glorified postal boy at best, he wasn’t even allowed to carry the more important letters. Secrets, he scoffs internally, he was more likely to be carting around dinner menus.

“A proper scout.” He repeats.

“A proper scout is someone who hunts, and makes sure their clan is safe.” It was something that Caldwell had never achieved, and in the eyes of his Dalish brethren he was still a child; he had never received his vallaslin, and he had never slain a beast in the hunt. The thought of being able to slay the demon werewolf that prowled Skyhold brings him a thrill, what a trophy that would be, what a brilliant mantle it would become to wear across his shoulders. “I’m not doing that here, and I can’t return to them without proving something of myself.”

“Return?” No One bites his tongue hard, feeling his gut sink into his legs with the look of confusion on Caldwell’s face. The young man doesn’t know, he doesn’t know and No One’s mind sprints to think of an excuse, because Caldwell doesn’t know.

“Is that so strange?” The young man says, tuning to him with a furrow in his brows. Caldwell was embarrassed at his lack of vallaslin, especially when there were Dalish already enrolled in the order wearing their ink with pride. He didn’t want people to think less of him for not having a dedicated mark upon his face, and thought it better to simply pretend to be an elf from the city. He would gather more respect as a flat-ear than he would as a child of his age.

“No, I just, I didn’t think you’d leave the Inquisition.” No One shrugs; lying about his initial reasoning. He can’t tell him, he can’t be the one to break that news. No One couldn’t imagine how to tell him something so foul. He wasn’t as callous to simply state what he knew, _the Warden Commander slaughtered your family_ , there was no simple or kind way to say such a thing. “It’ll be hard to lose a friend when I haven’t many.” He adds, it’s more truthful than before, and it earns a brilliant smile from the younger man.

“It won’t be for some time, Wystan. But it means a lot that you’d think so highly of me.” He laughs softly, wringing the strap of his satchel bag, he can feel his cheeks reddening under the compliments. It’d be the first time in a long time that Caldwell can remember feeling like this, so elevated in someone else’s opinion. Gone was weak little Geldwyl, he had flourished as Caldwell, and would flourish again as Runner.

“Hardly praise from a man like me.” He says quietly, “I’ll let you get back to your work.” He excuses himself quickly, letting the younger man think there is nothing wrong. The walk back to the sparring circle is short, and it doesn’t give him the time he needs to think about what had just happened. No One glances down to the group, Thom offers him a questioning smile, but it doesn’t hold his stare. Instead he locks eyes with the Warden Commander.

Andrastopher knows, No One realises, that bastard knows that he hasn’t said anything. It makes him feel as if he has lost again, with just one barefaced look it brings his guts to boil. He should have told Caldwell, the man deserves to know that his family was dead, but for No One to be the one to break the news; it didn’t seem right. He deserved a worthier tongue, he deserved the Warden Commander’s head. The Green-Eyed Boy would bring something worthy, perhaps not ammunition for No One anymore, but information for Caldwell to get revenge on such a vile man. He could only hope it came soon.

Goddard hadn’t truly been himself for the last few days. He held up a brilliant front when greeting guests after his short rest, but the subtle silence of the war room was a nice reprieve from the crowds. It wasn’t something he intended on opening up about, and he would deny those who had asked with lies and falsehoods. How could he tell them what had truly come to pass in the last few days, finding out an old lover was dead wasn’t supposed to be so cataclysmic.

Cullen was absent for now, only Leliana and Lady Josephine stood opposite him. The Commander had been suffering lately of his headaches, worse than usual, but he promised that they would pass. Goddard wondered if it looked like the Inquisition was crumbling, with the Herald and his military commander out of action would people begin to think them weak? They still hadn’t managed to pinpoint Corypheus after losing him some time ago, though Morrigan seemed to be getting somewhere with her studies, and believed that she may be able to locate him soon, or figure out what he might be plotting at the very least.

“What if they don’t find anything?” Goddard says, his voice quiet to hide the grieving tremble he could not shake. He had spent the last few days weeping, the same as he had done all those years ago when Florent had left. Only difference was that it was his wife who comforted him, not his brother, and he could not run away from his problems this time. “We’ve no way of finding out the truth, both of my parents are dead.”

“Your sister seems to know a lot about it.” Leliana points out. Whilst Goddard had been in the Emprise du Lion Yetta had spoken to the spymaster, telling her of how she did not trust her sister-by-law. For whatever reason that Yetta could not place, Leliana could sense it too, something about the woman that made her appear disloyal. She had kept a close eye on the woman, intent that no harm would come to the Inquisitor nor his Inquisition.

Despite what Goddard would say, and how he would protest if he knew, she would still investigate Lizette Unberge beyond Skyhold. It was her prerogative as spymaster to know any and all threats to the Inquisitor; no matter where it might come from. More so if the man was oblivious to it all. The idea that Lizette might have assisted in the death of a duke’s son when she was only sixteen, it makes Leliana wonder what else the woman could have done in these past decades. Cruelties of youth were not so easily forgotten.

“I assume Aaric confessed to her upon his death bed.” He shrugs, picking up one of the small pieces to indicate Orlesian armies; something for his hands to fiddle with. His left arm was still bound in cast, and the pain was dampened under tinctures. The map marker was a lion’s head, an easy way to depict Orlesians, but Florent was not a lion. The Baroulxs took the symbol of a phoenix for their heraldry, brimming with a lustrous gold, not carved from wood and sealed with a darkened varnish.

“Some of the words she used, if you recall them correctly, are odd, and damning.” She states. The first time she heard Goddard say those words, _we buried him_ , she felt ill at ease. It would have been a slip of Lizette’s tongue if Goddard had quoted her perfectly, _we buried him_ , which meant Lizette had done something all those years ago. Whether it was watching the body be cast underground, or whether she had been the one to execute him. There was blame to be found upon herself, all Leliana needed to do was prove to Goddard that she was untrustworthy; to plant that seed in his mind. “Lady Unberge knows where he is buried, and what he was buried in.”

“Aaric could have told her.” He counters, again refusing to believe his sister was culpable of such evil. Why search for answer when he already knew what had happened; his father was a murderer, and not in such a common nor valiant sense to mean that he had fought in wars.

“You said she was offended, when it seemed as if you were accusing her.” Leliana presses him again, her true meaning just out of sight. If Lizette could react so appalled, then it could be guilt lashing out in fear of discovery. Her pride in knowing that Florent had been bested in single combat was something else which prickled her curiosity, had she seen it happen? There was a truth to be found in her words, something that could be wrought out of her quickly if Goddard would give her permission. Lady Lizette would not survive so much torture, and answers might come with fingernails.

“It wasn’t as if she had just broken a cup, I can imagine I’d be offended if I were accused of something I hadn’t done, especially if it were murder.” He almost laughs at it. His emotions are still reeling from the revelation, to have searched for so long, and to only find death at the end.

“If I may, we might need to look at how to fix the situation,” Josephine says, interrupting them both, she knew enough of Leliana’s expressions to know when she was trying to manipulate someone into figuring something out without telling them. It was obvious enough that Goddard wasn’t listening to her unspoken meaning, and with something so personal, a much lighter touch was needed. “The Baroulxs are well respected within the chevalier circles of Orlais, and from certain letters we know that Florent was widely admired. They also have a mass of wealth, and the titles to rule a dukedom, no matter how they earned their position their rights still remain.”

“This could shatter our alliance with Orlais.” Goddard whispers, placing the piece back within the box, turning away, almost in shame. To imagine that everything they had built here might be wrecked by his father, he couldn’t have thought it would happen, but Aaric Trevelyan had a way of destroying most things that didn’t belong to him. Even after his death he was a pollution that Goddard could not rid himself of.

“I don’t think it could have that effect, we have enough allies in Orlais, and Emperor Gaspard thinks very highly of you.” She says with a comfort. Their friendship had flourished quickly, whether that was Gaspard playing the grand game or the fact that they simply bonded was beyond many. Both of them were old men, old veterans of many wars, and both had a divine right to their place. There was little hope that Goddard could have found such an ally in Celene, even given years she would not hold a candle to his and Gaspard’s friendship.

“Emperor Gaspard is marrying Florent’s niece.” He confesses. Watching as the realisation dawns on both women, he can see them both thinking through each scenario as it comes to them. “Which means, in a few months, I will owe reparations to the Empress of Orlais.” Unless Maxime was mistaken, which is highly doubtful at this stage, Goddard’s past was coming back to haunt him in the worst of ways.

“Then we should move quickly. Settle the debt with the Baroulxs before she takes her crown.” Leliana states, her voice strong and clear. If the debt could be repaid before the wedding then the Inquisition would not be crushed under the imperial throne, and their alliance with Gaspard would not be damaged in any way.

“And what, give them something to hold over the Inquisition until the wedding is over? We must wait on this information, perhaps Gaspard might aid us in this.” Josephine says it with optimism; Goddard had given the Emperor his throne, a debt which remains unpaid. Promises of marriage and wyvern hunting were nothing compared to how the Inquisition had aided him. The emeror could easily wave the murder as a favour, or he could help to smooth such things over in their talks, should they have them.

“Duke Maxime already knows I have my suspicions about Aaric murdering his brother.” Goddard’s words bring a slight frown to both women, they both knew it was a misstep in the grand game, and if they had known beforehand they would have advised him against it. But it was an action already taken, and the Herald didn’t seem to be put out by what he had done.

“Then he may already be moving against us.” Leliana sighs, they were losing this round.

“I don’t care. I truly, truly don’t.” He says, leaning forward with his palm flat against the table. Exhaustion was grappling at his bones with every breath, and doesn’t believe he has ever felt so old.

“Inquisitor-”

“I loved Florent, and I owe it to that family, the one who has wondered about the fate of their brother for almost half a century. I owe them, and it is not a debt I intend to run away from.” He snaps, calming his voice as he explains. Goddard had never been the man to run away from his debts. He had even incurred the debt of others as Bann Trevelyan, and taken it upon himself to pay such things off. To hide and cower from this would be an embarrassment, and no longer would his bannorn trust him to settle disputes and such. It would shame him in the way his father had tried all those years ago, it made him feel ill.

“We could lose a lot of support, from noble allies as well as the chevaliers Emperor Gaspard has gifted us.” Josephine points out. She doesn’t want to cover this up, but she has come to terms with using underhand tactics as the weeks wore on. The Inquisition was a good cause, a brilliant one, and she understood that sometimes a bad path is better than a worse one.

“Then we lose them, or we pray that they do not blame me for my father’s actions.” He states, straightening his back and clearing his throat. The Inquisition had a great many Orlesian soldiers, they were closer to the breach than any other nation, bar Ferelden, and they would not be outshone by the doglords to the east. But the death of Florent could be seen as an insult to the imperial monarchy, and could fracture the Orlesian arm of the Inquisition at a time when they needed to be undivided.

“Then may I suggest, if we receive a body, that you allow us time to have healers look over it.” Leliana asks, having a care to what words she used. Goddard’s grief was obvious even as he tried to hide it, and she couldn’t help but feel a sympathy for the man. “It may tell us of how Florent died.”

“It was several decades ago, I doubt there will be much of him left.” He chokes out, his words failing him at the thought of Florent lying underground and alone for all those years, to be found as nothing but rotten bones and dust.

“Bones can still give us an indication.” She adds. “Your father bested him in single combat, and his choice of weapon was almost always a great hammer.” Goddard’s wince is more obvious. So many years in war and he had seen the injuries caused by such weaponry. The crushed ribs, the decimated skulls, trying to name a body when all that remained was malformed bones and a sea of blood. Men had gone mad over the sight of less. To imagine Florent as such was not worth thinking about, yet the images came regardless, and they branded themselves upon Goddard’s memory of the man.

“It might bring comfort to the family to know how he died.” Josephine says quickly, watching as the Inquisitor’s eyes glazed over in mourning.

“Yes, of course.” He clears his throat once more, it swells with agony. “But do not delay on this, Leliana, I will not have Florent bandied about as favour.” His threat is clear, even as weak as he sounds, it is one that does not stand without foundation.

“As you wish.”

“I mean this, we do it my way or we do it publicly.” He reinforces his words with the same kind of stare he reserves for judgements. Florent was not a pawn to be used in the grand game, the man was worth far more than he was served, and he would not diminish his life to such an insult.

“Understood, Inquisitor.” She repeats. Her steps must be lighter from now on, so much was linked to Florent, and to fall out of line in any of those risks the Inquisition’s reputation. She bows slightly as she leaves the war room, walking swiftly to her crows nest. There was more to be found, she did not believe Florent’s death was as simple as Goddard thought it was. She could not blame the man for his thoughts; he was grieving for the first person he had loved, a man he had been searching after for several decades. To prolong that could be torturous.

Oscar is sat waiting for her as she takes the steps. He stands with a fist to his chest in salute, and hands her a bundle of documents that had been left in his care. She leaves them tied for now, there were more important things on her mind that she didn’t need to be distracted from.

“I need the Trevelyan’s accounting books, and all records of travel and health for the Inquisitor’s immediate family, spanning the last fifty years.” Leliana says, sitting at her desk and clearing a space to write her requested letter. It would be done quickly and cleanly, sent out by raven tonight. She knew she couldn’t be precise in her letter, singling out Lady Unberge would be too obvious, and this way she could say she was eliminating the fact that Aaric might have paid to have him killed. It puts mistrust in Lizette’s story, but Goddard would understand and probably thank her for being so meticulous about this injustice.

“Yes, Lady Leliana.” He nods his head, almost bowing in agreement.

“Deliver this to Commander Cullen,” She hands him the letter Lei had given to her previously, believing that it would be better to rid Goddard of his bastard son with such news coming to light, “and then be ready to journey to Amaranthine.”

“I’m going?” Oscar questions, his eyebrows raising in surprise. He was usually kept within Skyhold or within the immediate area, travelling further than the Frostback Mountains was something he hadn’t been asked to do since arriving here.

“I will send word ahead, but I need you to ensure they arrive as quickly as possible.” She states, but does not correct him on his lack of title usage. “Someone will meet you on the docks with the information.” It would take too long to send him to Ostwick, and they already had scouts there who would be able to gather and transport the evidence. If Oscar rode fast enough he might be able to come upon the young Lady Trevelyan’s carriage, and find out exactly why she had left in such a hurry. The soldiers going with her made sense, a team to find Florent’s body disguised as an armed entourage, but why she had gone with her husband and children did not.

“Of course, Lady Leliana.”

“That is all.” She says, waving him off and returning to her work. Oscar offers another bow, quickly darting down the stairs, letter in hand, and rushing to travel with daylight ahead of him. He was not a fan of walking the mountain pathways at night, there were too many opportunities for ambush, and with the wolf and the breach, nowhere was safe.

Thom manages to find No One in the library after Varric points him in the direction _of that angry blonde fellow without a name_. He had gone to No One’s old crook first, and then to his chambers. The tavern had been next on his list, and he was sure the library would have come up as a suggestion sooner or later. No One had manged to pile dozens of books in Thom’s room ranging from botanical diaries to Thedosian myths and legends. How he managed to read them all was not something Thom could figure out, either the man wasn’t reading them properly, or was the quickest reader this side of the Frostbacks.

“Thom, a pleasure as always.” No One grins, pulling a book from the shelf and flipping it open to an unchosen page. He watches as Cousland’s lover makes his way down the spiralling stairs, jogging with a letter in hand. Oscar could be information to use against him, something Caldwell might be inclined to know about.

“Are you alright?” He asks, leaning against the bookshelf. “You didn’t come back to watch the spar.” Watching the man run off to catch up to the scout hadn’t been any cause for concern, as strange as Thom thought it had been. But the hatred across his face when he had made his way back to them, that was something else. No One had made detoured to the lower courtyard and slipped away before Thom could figure out where he had gone.

He had left the man alone to return to watching Andrastopher and Lei spar, but he couldn’t take his mind off of it. To see such malice in his features. Thom knew it wasn’t intended for him, or hoped it to be so, because No One hadn’t been glaring at him. The Warden Commander seemed to be the object of his sheer loathing, and he knew that him and No One were at odds over certain things, but it wasn’t anything that the scout could know.

“Peachy,” He sings, sucking on his tongue as he snaps the book closed, “that’s a lie, partially.”

“Can I ask?” Thom moves a step closer, offering to take the book from the other man. No One waits until he hears the door of the library close behind Oscar before continuing; that man was far too close to the Warden Commander to be listening to such conversations. Thom puts the book back upon the shelf and folds his arms, warming his hands in the joint of them. There was a cold spell that had settled a few days ago, and it seemed to be on the way out, leaving an unhealthy winter cough in its trail. Something that had brought an unpleasant tickle to Thom’s chest.

“You already are.” He snorts, but his voice loses his laughter quickly, “Cousland, he told me something, and I really wish I could forget it.” Maker how he desires not to know. How could he face Caldwell, a boy so excited about his future reunion with his clan, when all that awaited him was a graveyard.

“About?”

“Caldwell.” He says defeatedly, leaning back against the ceiling-high bookshelf. It’s not that comfortable, but the tomes digging into his back is a pinching reminder to keep him grounded. “He’s Dalish, he hides it pretty well so I only found out when he said _ir abelas_ to me.” How that came about wasn’t something to tell Thom.

“And that’s _not peachy_ because?” Thom huffs, laughter slipping into his voice. He knew No One wasn’t the kind of man to find fault with elves, Dalish or not, and he knew of the man’s past with the race and the chevalier customs. If anything, No One held a respect for them, initially born from his own injustice, but it was respect nonetheless.

“Because his clan are dead, all of them, and he doesn’t know.” No One looks away as he says it, guilt pouring into his gut and trying to drown him. “But I do, and now so do you.” He prods Thom in the shoulder, tipping the man slightly off balance. The blame in his belly increases threefold, not only had he kept the massacre a secret from Caldwell’s ears, but now he was telling others who had the same right to know that he did himself. Which was to say; none at all.

“Maker’s balls, that’s,” he turns away for a moment, running his fingers through his hair, before turning back, “how does the Warden Commander know?” He frowns, he couldn’t see how any of this might be linked to Andrastopher, the man had no reason to be delving into Dalish history from what Thom knew of him.

“Because he’s the one who killed them. It was during the blight so nothing ever came of it. No justice, not even a slap on the wrist, nothing for some barefooted knife-ears who rolled in mud and frolicked through the trees.” No One spits the words with venom. How he hated Cousland for what he had done, and what he still continues to do. Thom should have learnt now that No One is full of endless surprises, yet this is just another added to the list, that throws Thom from whatever mindless thought had made itself comfortable in the front of his thoughts. “They deserve better.” He whispers, chewing on his teeth and glancing away.

“They do.” Thom reaches across to the other man, his hand giving comfort upon No One’s upper arm. “And Caldwell deserves to know.” The other man turns to him, dark brows pinched with eyes that blink too often.

“And _I_ tell him?” He says, almost scoffing his words. “The man he slept with once because he was out of his mind with ale, because he thinks I’m a good man named Wystan, because he tried to kiss me?” No One bites his tongue, another thing that Thom didn’t need to know. He can feel his throat starting to swell, like tangles of hair upon his tongue.

“I think he deserves a friend who’s willing to tell him.” He whispers, tilting No One’s chin up from where he stares at the floor below.

“He should have someone better than me.” No One sniffs, rubbing the tip of his nose against the back of his palm swiftly. “He’s doing all this, the training, because he wants to go back to them, Thom, I can’t be the one to spoil that.” He gestures wildly, throwing his hand out in frustration. It hurts him within, the comparison between him and Caldwell. He had a family, he assumed they all still lived, and he could never see them again. But Caldwell, he wanted to go back to his family, he could have done if Andrastopher hadn’t come upon them, but that was not a future for him to have.

“Revenge is a good enough motivator for anyone, I’d say.” A voice comes from around the corner, heavy with a Tevinter accent and almost self-satisfied in his tone.

“How long have you been listening?” No One snaps, stepping until he can see the owner of the voice. Pavus, he thinks, biting his tongue. The man was sat there in his highbacked chair with a snifter of brandy in one hand and a book in the other. It wasn’t his fault, No One knew, but that didn’t stop him from blaming the other man. He could have made it known that they were not as alone as they thought.

“Since the beginning.” Dorian admits. “Contrary to popular belief, libraries are not the best places for lover’s trysts and private conversations. Luckily for us it’s rather empty at the moment.” He gestures with his drink to the empty floor they’re on. People milled around above them, he could hear Solas’ mutterings from below, and the entire library smelt of his bloody paints.

“Dorian.” Thom scolded.

“Though at the rate you’re going it’ll be gossip by tea time.” He snorts, swirling the honey coloured liquid before swallowing it down. “But, before your face permanently creases like that, my lips are sealed and, surprisingly, Thom here has some good advice.”

“Not advice I’m going to take sober.” He murmurs. It produces a laugh from both men, and Dorian offers him the upward twitch of his brows. “Don’t suppose any of that is going?”

“Afraid it’s the last.”

“You’re a bad liar, Pavus.” He grins, falsely, but nobody else would know. “I’ll meet you in the tavern, yes?” No One says, pressing his lips to Thom’s without thought of their third companion, and leaving him behind. The last, he thinks, scrubbing at his face when he’s out of sight. Dorian offers Thom another raised brow at the image, how easy it must be for the latter to accept such affections having not grown up in the poisonous presumptions of Tevinter. It almost makes him jealous.

Oscar found the bath house to be almost entirely empty, despite the people that lingered outside with their own towels and soaps. He hadn’t thought much of it until he pushed open the wooden doors and saw the only man in there bathing; one of the very few men with enough power to completely take over the public washroom. The Warden Commander turned at the intrusion, features softening when he recognised who it was. It wasn’t something he had planned on, he had only wanted to bathe quickly before he set out on his journey.

“Do you want to be alone?” Oscar says clearing his throat, considering the people outside had remained outside for a reason. Though he could not take his eyes from the bathing man. His lengthy hair swam in tendrils around him, and made him look almost like a deity; stark black against alabaster skin carved with red. Compared with the height of the man, it was no wonder that he had heard such tales of him during the blight; ten-foot-tall was admittedly closer to the truth than he had originally thought.

“It’s fine.” He says, cupping water in his too large hands and tipping it over his face.

“I didn’t realise, I mean the people outside.” His words trail off, feeling more awkward as the seconds tick by. Oscar stood in only the towel he had changed into, as if he were waiting for permission to move. Andrastopher nods at him to gesture him over, patting his face dry with a small towel and ridding his skin of the water droplets.

“They’re out there because I like to bathe alone,” He states, dampening the towel under the water and washing the slightly sunburnt skin of his scalp, “and someone has taken to spreading rumours that, as a Warden, I taint the water. Thus, nobody is willing to come near me.” A stupid whisper of gossip; if the Wardens tainted the water they bathed in then all the rivers and lakes would be black with pollution. Yet it came in brilliantly when he needed to bathe alone, to soothe his aching joints and rid himself of a persistent headache.

“Do you?”

“No.” Andrastopher snorts, clearing the water from his nose with a pinch of his fingers. It makes him think of the times he had spent bathing with Zevran, the one time he had cut himself shaving and bled into the water. He had scrambled the Antivan from the bath, wary of the taint held within him, but Zevran had laughed it off. It was the last time Andrastopher had shaved, and it must have been years ago. People had remarked upon it, the hair that curled from his chin, and the Grey Wardens, they knew. Their blood was tainted, and scraping a blade across one’s jaw every morning gave them a large chance of cutting themselves. It’s why so many of them have beards.

“I’ll be as quick as I can, if you prefer to be alone, I’ve a long journey so I just thought I’d bathe now.” He shrugs as he sits on the stone edge of the bath, his feet dipping into the water. Oscar waits until Andrastopher closes his eyes as he pours water across his face, before slipping in beside him, and leaving the towel on the side. He could not compare to someone he had just imagined looked so divine.

“Going somewhere?”

“Lady Leliana wants me to collect some information from northern Ferelden.” He supplies, reaching for his own soap to lather in his hands. Northern Ferelden was Fergus’ land, and the mere mention of it brings an anxiety to the Warden Commander’s chest. Andrastopher knew that the spymaster had held off interfering with Grey Wardens’ pasts, but since Thom Rainier was made out to be a fraud, she had completely renounced her earlier precautions. Which meant she would find no issue in finding out about his own past, what she would attempt to do with such things was beyond him. Though it would not stay that way for so long.

“You leave tonight?” Andrastopher says, hands carefully washing the lengthy black trails of his hair. It’s never awkward to wash, most people assume it is, but he worries more about pulling the strands out than tangling them; his hair had already receded enough.

“Yes, I’ll be gone a while.” He says, soap held loosely in his hands. More of a thing to hold on to than to wash with at the moment, the man was nervous.

“It must be of great import, on such short notice, to send one of her best scouts away.” He hums, combing through the greying tendrils, like fading ink in the ocean.

“She wants accountancy books and general things like that.” He laughs softly, scrubbing the soap over his arms. Oscar had come here to bathe, to have found it so empty with only the Warden Commander inside was a surprise to say the least, but not one he wouldn’t take advantage of. “I feel more of a glorified porter than anything else.”

“Nonsense.” Andrastopher’s hand lands on his, stilling the rough motions of his own. There was no need to rush, they were alone after all. He stares down at the red patches across his fingers, the ones that run the length of his arm to end under the curve of his elbow. An odd sort of tattoo, one that seemed painful to receive, but Oscar could understand it’s meaning. Each hand had a different pattern, but they signified archer’s gloves, some fingers left exposed, and some striped with ink.

It was so different to what he had expected. There was little that the Warden Commander could do to hide the ink across his face. But to know it spread lower than his clothes, across his whole body. Peeking from the water like small mountains are his knees, the skin there has ink too, and belts made out of scars. Andrastopher removes his hand and quickly washes the hair of his beard, he takes less care than what he had done with the hair that grew around his scalp. The man was almost bald on top, with naught but little tufts to keep him warm. It couldn’t be described in such a way to sound handsome, but it was to some.

“I suppose it’ll be good to see Amaranthine again, a nice city, and a shame I won’t be able to stay a while.” Oscar admits. He had been there when he was younger, he hadn’t been born there, but he had some relatives.

“If you carry my token they’ll give you one of the best rooms in the city without charge.” Andrastopher offers, cupping water to bring to his beard. Oscar frowns for the slightest moment, his brows coming together in a twitch before he remembers Amaranthine belongs to the man sat beside him. He would be glad to see the refortifications the city had under his command, Oscar had heard tales of Castle Cousland’s defences, and knew they were parallel to some of the greatest fortresses in Thedas.

“It wouldn’t be the best without you there.” He whispers, quickly turning away as his tongue betrays him, “I, forgive me, Andras, that was too forward.”

“Nonsense, give me an hour and I shall travel with you.” He says, standing from the water which streams from his body, catching in the short hairs that cover him, and blemishing his skin with bauble-like crystals. Oscar almost swallows his tongue at the sight. The ink covered him; everywhere. “I have recruits that need inducting into the Wardens, and Amaranthine is one of the closest Grey Warden bases.” Andrastopher carefully squeezes the water from his hair, pulling it from where it sticks to his back and wrapping it on the width of his shoulders. It’s lengthy enough for the strands to stick to the flatness of his arse, and he knows that is probably one of the least attractive things about himself.

Oscar lets his nails bite into the muscles of his thighs, willing himself to look away. The Warden Commander’s back, even as laced with ink as it was, conveyed a strength in the ripples. He was an archer, Oscar had seen the war bow he kept in his tavern room. Something of a large thing, with taut string, a weight that few could carry, and even fewer could wield. More scars lace his thighs, running the circumference like leather that had been tied too tight. It’s hidden under hair and tattoos but it remains, rooting a curiosity in the scout.

“If you’ve no objections?” He says it as he walks away, grabbing a towel to wrap around his waist, so that he may dress in private in the adjacent room. There was more to figure out from him, Leliana had reasons for everything she did, and she would not delve into someone’s business without caution, least of all his own. It also came as a good reason for Andrastopher to prepare for the Joining; he would have to take the recruits on his own, every Grey Warden in Ferelden was still indebted to the Inquisitor for saving them at Adamant, more so than they were to the Warden Commander.

There were a few to take, including Lei, and those who survived could be left at Amaranthine to settle in before being sent elsewhere. The only issue would be the intimacy that Oscar would be expecting. He can lie his way through it, he had done so before, he only hoped that Lei would be willing to cooperate with him. Which meant giving the man more trust than he had before; something Andrastopher found that he had no fault with, the young man hadn’t shown any signs that he was disloyal.

“No, none at all.” Oscar whispers, his voice hoarse and his throat dry. The privacy of the bathhouse is something he’s rather grateful for at the moment, it won’t last, and he scrubs himself quickly so that he may commit that image to memory for later. Travelling at night wasn’t so bad when you weren’t alone. He watches as people being to wander into the bathhouse, staring at the water intently as if they could see the non-existent blight within.

In the tavern, one of Cabot’s staff delivers Thom and No One a bowl of soup each, and a loaf to share. No One had ordered it especially, mostly to stop the other man from sniffling as he ate. The cold affected many, and it was a misfortune that Thom had become its victim. On the other hand, No One still went without shoes, and only wore the thin shirt he had been given underneath the heavy druffalo wool blanket. The cold scarcely touched him any longer, living in the chill of the mountains was much preferable to sunnier places.

“I wanted to ask you something.” Thom sniffs. No One motions with his acceptance a swirl of his wrist for Thom to continue, his mouth full of soupy bread and a tankard halfway to his lips. It almost makes him laugh how much the man ate like Sera, inhaling everything in sight without thought or favour to breathe. “It’s about something you said about a week ago; war doesn’t wait for the love of men.” It wouldn’t have been polite to ask him earlier. No one was clearly conflicted over the news of Caldwell’s clan, and Thom had seen him laugh off his sorrow and leave; something the man hadn’t done much lately. It was a tactic he had employed a lot when they first met, but they knew each other better now. They trusted each other so much more.

“War _does not_ wait for the love of men. You can’t abbreviate it.” No One corrects him, hiding the half-eaten food with the belly of his tankard. The man was in a better mood for whatever reason, the man had disappeared for a few hours and Thom had left him to it. No One was flighty at the best of times, and Thom wasn’t going to force him into something he wasn’t prepared to go through. He had faith that he would come back, he always did.

“It’s important then?” He asks, swallowing some ale and letting his fingers dance across the rim. Goddard had said it so flippantly earlier, granted he hadn’t quite masked the sorrow that leaked into his words before Thom saw it, but he hadn’t any idea why that was.

“Yes.” He swallows it with effort, chasing it down with ale and a grin. No One dips his head closer to Thom, lowering his voice just a touch. “The whole thing is an old saying for chevaliers, we fight and die with honour, as if that actually means anything; dead’s dead.” He pulls back with a shrug and rips another piece from his half-loaf to soak, heir private conversation clearly over.

“So, common then?” Thom offers. If it was something widely said then there was no cause for curiosity. But he couldn’t say he had ever heard it before, and it wasn’t the most normal way of saying such a thing. It was far too poetic for a normal conversation.

“Not exactly, but I wouldn’t know anymore.” It’s a saddening revelation, he was so distant from his family that he had no idea whether they still used it. He believed they would, but he couldn’t know that, not without doubt in his mind. Thom feels his gut tense at the words. If they weren’t that common then how do they both know it? And who told them? If they had a common link then it posed a danger to No One, and with how famous the Herald had become lately, it wouldn’t be long before something was brought to light.

The knowledge doesn’t sit right within him, No One wasn’t the kind of man to have connections, to have any at all. Yet, he and Goddard were speaking with the same tongue. They couldn’t know each other, he knows No One wouldn’t risk staying if a man with that much power could recognise him. Goddard did truly think his name was Luin Saile after all, there was no way they knew each other. No One jabs him with the dry end of his spoon, to catch his wandering attention.

“Am I that dull?” He snorts, drinking the rest of his soup, leaving the last wedge of bread in the bottom of the bowl and pushing it away from him. No One doesn’t want to dwell on the words of his family, it’s too close to the truth, and it’s too close to his heart. And, he thought, it wasn’t worth saying if it made Thom feel uncomfortable. He can see his mind flitting through the words over and over, and No One isn’t calm enough to let the man continue.

“What?” Thom offers.

“Forget the words, Thom, eat your soup, and then,” he stands from his seat, and leans across the table and slips his fingers into the collar of Thom’s shirt, “meet me in your bedchamber.” No One drums his hands lightly across the table top and leaves with the slightest bow, and a grin growing across his lips. There’s little to stop Thom from inhaling the rest of his food and chasing after the man. All thoughts of Goddard and Caldwell forgotten in favour of that delightful iron mouth.

Lei had been staring at the Las’dirthen tome for the past few days, he could feel the magic radiating from it, and it was present in almost all of his thoughts. Even as he read _Ferelden: Folklore and History_ he could not sway his mind. He abandons the book, and throws his sheets from his waist. Pacing the room seems to be the only thing that aids him in his decision making. Wine and pacing, he thinks, pouring a glass from the bottle and holding it between his fingers.

He wasn’t normally one to drink, but there were exceptional circumstances. Such as the fear of having an old Dalish curse placed on himself or having the Las’dirthen burning up his arms because he hadn’t heeded the warning. With a deep breath he steels himself, chugging the wine.

“Warden Commander, Ser.” Lei coughs, startled halfway through his drink by the intrusion. He stands and bows as gracefully as he can, trying to clear his throat. It’s almost a shock to see the Warden Commander dressed fully in his uniform. The Hero of Ferelden was a title that suited him well, draped in warden blues and stunning silverlite, quiver at his hip and a sword on the opposite. His image fills him with a sense of fearlessness and anticipation, he too would bear this gallant grace that the Warden Commander exuded one day.

“Gather your things, we’re leaving tonight.” Andrastopher states, only stalled by Lei’s questioning word. It’s wheezy and forced out but the boy still battles with swallowing his wine incorrectly.

“Ser?”

“You’ll be undertaking the Joining, though we must travel some distance first.” He is quick to explain, hoping to avoid any questions about the trials they would face as warden recruits. Though his memory is blurred he remembers his own Joining, and the questions asked by Ser Jory and Daveth; he remembers the latter’s death more clearly, knowing that he might be giving some of the recruits their death march.

“Already?” Lei asks, his word bringing the Warden Commander from his thoughts.

“Is there an issue?” Andrastopher sniffs, eager to rouse the rest of those who expressed an interest in joining him. Oscar would not wait forever, and any delay only gave Leliana more of a chance to intervene. But if the young man had worries about joining the order then he would rather had them sorted beforehand, he didn’t want to have to execute him like Duncan had Ser Jory.

“No, it’s just late today, and.” He shrugs, unable to give a probable reason for not wanting to travel, other than it had caught him unawares in the late afternoon. The Las’dirthen had peaked his curiosity to the point that he could no longer stand it, although he wouldn’t admit it; Andrastopher was intruding.

“Are you having second thoughts?” Andrastopher steps inside, a hand on the latch of the door. A divided mind was the easiest way to go about being executed by a warden’s sword.

“I want to be a Grey Warden.” Lei says it with strength, his desire to join the order was unwavering.

“That’s not what I asked.” He says, pushing the door shut behind him and taking a seat at the young man’s vanity. Lei scratches at his jaw, and looks away. He cannot imagine a better time to ask the Warden Commander of his doubts, yet, he didn’t know whether it was right to voice them. Thom’s friend had told him there was as much of a chance that the spymaster was using him as much as the Warden Commander may be. A coat of iron grows in his gut, giving him the resolve to voice his worries.

“Are you doing this to use me? To blackmail the Herald into freeing your son?” Lei’s words come out as an accusation, not at all how he intended it, but he could not push his voice back into his throat.

“No.” Andrastopher says without a stutter, without flinching. It hadn’t been what he had expected, but he had prepared himself should the young man ever find out. He knew that many would try their chances on the Inquisitor’s bastard, and he knew that many would be watching him trying his chances too. But things had changed over time; Andrastopher no longer wanted to use the young man as something to hold over the Inquisitor, the thing that drove that desire had died swiftly.

Lei had proved himself, proved his loyalty and his determination, just within their first sparring session. Hungover and exhausted, he put up the best fight and the best defence he could, and Andrastopher could find no fault with his intentions. Lei was not meant to be cannon fodder, he was meant for more, he was meant for the Grey Wardens. Something that he would not see squandered over an ill-made decision.  It was neither right nor wrong to tell him, Andrastopher instead returned to the teachings of the Qun. Lei gained nothing from knowing, and would have lost ample if he knew. Without knowledge of this he could gain his place where he was meant to be; beside Andrastopher, toiling as his apprentice.

“That’s it?” Lei balks, expecting some kind of further explanation, or even a moment of shock at the suggestion of such a thing.

“If you want me to ask who told you this, I needn’t, I know it’s the Spymaster.” He says it without any indication of emotion save an exasperation that sags his shoulders. “We dislike each other entirely, she serves Bann Goddard Trevelyan and you are his son.”

“And we’re his guests.” Lei says with determination. It brings the barest raise of the Warden Commander’s brows, but there’s a small amount of joy in the minor movement. Lei was learning, and he had been learning ever since Andrastopher had taken him under his wing so to speak. It was something he was eager to prove, that he listened dutifully, and took no lesson in vain.

“We are.” He nods. There’s a moment of pause when Andrastopher stands from the vanity stool he sat upon, his hand coming to rest on the hilt of his sword at the cloth of his quiver; checking they both still remained where they were intended to be. “A shame she no longer fights for the mage’s cause, she once spoke of how everyone deserved the same chance, regardless of magic or the shape of their ears or who they loved. A shame she didn’t give _my_ son that chance.”

“He’s here in Skyhold, she told me to speak with him, about you.” Lei admits, picking up the satchel he had once carried his things in to Skyhold. He didn’t have many things, most of it had been given to him by the Inquisition when he had served as a soldier.

“And did you?” Andrastopher asks, his gut burning like wild fire. She had failed to dig her pious claws into him, so now she must shackle his son with chains so falsely virtuous. It was not enough to stand amongst one of the most respected orders in Thedas, no, she even reached for false heavens with titles of Divine. She would not pollute Thedas, and she would not pollute his son.

“No.” Lei shrugs, shaking his head. He had wanted to, he didn’t doubt that, but he hadn’t felt like he could. Meddling with Andrastopher’s family wouldn’t do anyone any good, especially not himself.

“Good, leave him be. He detests having me as a father, you would do well not to remind either of us.” There’s a sadness that creeps into his voice, too much of a tell from the way Lei’s brows pinch together in sympathy. It reminded Andrastopher why the Qunari didn’t have parents, it was too easy to become attached to a child. The thought scares him, no matter how he tries to convince himself he is unsure of how he would act in the face of that choice. To side with the Qun, something he so loyally believed in, or to side with his son; a man who was bas saarebas. “It is a long journey, twelve days either way with the weather permitting.” He says after a moment, nodding his farewell and unlatching the door. Leliana needed a comeuppance, and Oscar would be a fine gift.

“I’ll be at the gatehouse in an hour.” Lei calls, staring down at the particular mind consuming tome. With a determined huff he places it in the bottom of his satchel, whence it was buried with spare clothes and his own diary.

Thom had left the tavern in a hurry, barely taking the time to properly tie his coat closed as he stepped out into the chilled night. It had only been a week since they had sent their night so intimately, and it didn’t seem long enough for No One to get over whatever had stopped him before. He wasn’t going to complain at any rate. If the man needed a week then Thom had given it willingly, and if he needed more, then it would be completed in a similar fashion.

He sniffs again, sneezing with the weather and cursing it with the same breath. Spending his morning watching two men spar whilst he stood on the side lines had allowed a chill to creep into his bones. A warm fire and a long rest would soothe it out of him. Thom chews his lip to hide the grin that forms on his features, he was on a promise, almost. With a cough to clear his throat he unlatches his bedchamber door, shocked to see the blonde waiting for him so close.

No One pulls Thom into the room by the front of his coat, the latter wondering exactly how long he had been stood beside the doorframe, but not exactly caring a great deal. He kisses him fiercely, open mouthed and tasting of iron; a promise indeed. His tongue presses against Thom’s own, dragging a groan from the other man, drawing himself closer with clutching hands.

They stumble into the room, Thom kicks the door closed with the heel of his boot, wary not to step on the naked toes of his lover. He can feel No One’s lengthy fingers tangling in his hair, one gripping the back of his neck to keep him close. Their kisses are heavy, filled with lust, and desperate for relief. Neither man tries to hide the echoing gasps and moans that fall from their lips, a sort of giggling laughter slips from them once or twice; the glee they felt being so intimate.

“No One,” he grumbles, dragging his teeth against the sinewy pillar of No One’s neck, “tell me to stop and I will.”

“That sounds like a threat, Ser Rainier.” He laughs. Thom bites into the hard edges of No One’s collarbone, his tongue tracing the upper edge of the scar that dresses his torso. “Let me suck your cock, Thom.” He hisses it into Thom’s ear, biting the shell of it and tracing it with his tongue. It makes Thom’s hips twitch forward with the words, something about it sounds so much filthier in that noble Royan accent.

“Keep talking like that and I’ll let you do just about anything.”

“Fais attention à ce que tu dis.” He moans, lowering his voice to a scratching gravel, breathy against Thom’s ear. Maker but Orlesian had never sounded so bloody sinful. These last few years Thom had done all he could to avoid the language, yet now he was starving for it.

“Now who’s threatening who?” Thom huffs. It brings No One’s lips apart in an iron smile, his tongue tracing the edge of the metal before hollowing out his cheeks. A moment of tenderness settles between the two, No One pushing hair behind the curl of the other man’s ear, gazing at him as if he was the only thing that mattered. Right now, No One truly thinks he is. Thom noses gently into their next kiss. Their lips barely open and somehow, it’s far more desirable, leading them into an intimacy that neither hadn’t tasted before.

No One bites at Thom’s lower lip, dragging away from the kiss and leading him backwards until he stands against the wall. A raised eyebrow is offered, but he follows dutifully, aligning their bodies and more importantly their hips. No One spreads his legs just that little bit wider to take his height down a few inches, meeting Thom lips without having to angle his head down. It allows him to step in closer, moaning as their cocks brush against each other between the fabric of their clothing.

Thom presses open-mouthed kisses along the edge of No One’s jaw, licking his lips as the stubble there prickles at his mouth. Fingers tangle in his hair once more, tightening when teeth scratch his neck, twisting when Thom sucks a rosy colour to his flesh. The tenderness falls away with the building heat of desire. Becoming buried under a building lust that drives them both to be quicker, to desperately pull the other closer into them.

“Take off your breeches, anything else, I don’t care.” No One moans, mouthing at Thom’s neck and grinding their hips together. “Fuck it, just drop them.” He hisses. His fingers untangle the ties of the other man’s clothing, pushing them down below his cock, and taking the length in his hand. Thom groans into his laughter pushing his cock into the grip of No One’s fingers.

He bares his neck, ungracefully pulling his hair one side so that No one may have more access. The iron at his throat feels divine, but it would feel so much more if the caps were not there. A hand pushes against his shoulder, turning them so that Thom’s back is against the stone walling. He lets his head fall back, letting No One taste the arch of his neck, and down to the collar of his overcoat. It would be easier if the man was naked. To trail his kisses down his chest and over his belly, he’d been pulling hairs from his mouth at some point, but that held no issue.

“You know I’ve been thinking about this since I did it a week ago.” He laughs breathily, spitting the iron teeth from his mouth and tossing them upon the bed. Thom watches them as they land, biting his own tongue knowing what is to come.

“Yes?” Thom breathes.

“Yes.” He draws out his word, thicker now with his Royan accent, and presses the length of Thom’s cock against his face. “I know I said I wasn’t ready, but I wasn’t _clear_.” He kisses it gently, breathing warmth against it as he brings the head to his lips. Thom looks down to watch, keeping their eyes locked as he does so, grey irises turned a hedonistic black.

“What? I- _Maker’s balls_.” Thom throws his head back and groans through gritted teeth. No One swallowed him without flinching, the edge of his nose curving against the protrusion of Thom’s gut. “Shit.” He hisses, hands gripping at his own hair. Laughter tickles his cock as No One pulls back, dragging the head across the roof of his mouth and the half tunnel of his tongue. It’s unbelievably wet, No One brings saliva to douse his lips, sucking only the tip of Thom’s cock. His tongue pressing into the foreskin and pinching it with the barest hint of teeth.

Thom’s hand comes down to grip at No One’s shoulder, a warning twitch to stop him from biting too hard. He hears the laughter again, glancing down to see the other man’s mouth and hand working in tandem across his cock. Before hadn’t been like this, no this was, this was so much better.

No One moans around him; the hand that wasn’t pressed against his mouth tugs at Thom’s breeches enough that the man pushes them down himself. He twitches forward when the cold stone graces his bare arse, and No One pulls back to still his throat. His fist curls around Thom’s cock, twisting at the wrist ever so slightly with every movement. Kisses are placed around his thighs, biting into his skin with a fever unbound.

“Shit, No One.” Thom gasps, toes curling within his snow-covered boots.

“Are you close?” He whispers, breathing heavy against his sex with a grin across his lips. Thom grunts out something of a committal noise, followed by a relieved and hurried sigh when his cock is swallowed once more. The noise becomes more obscene with every second that passes, and it seems to echo in his bedchamber, as does the string of curses that fall from his lips.

Thom bites his lower lip as he comes, watching as No One swallows everything he has. The man’s mouth shines with wetness, his cheeks red and hollowing, continuing to drag across his length until it softens in his mouth. Even then he graces the limp sex with gentle lips and heady breath. Thom has to tilt the man’s face up to bring him to stand, his own cheeks ruddy and dampened.

“Beau.” No One whispers hands cupping either side of Thom’s face. He’s gifted with bubbling laughter, and a grin beneath a well-groomed beard. Thom tilts his head asking for another kiss, No One stepping an inch closer and obliging happily.

Thom tries to untie the knot in the other man’s breaches, but is stopped by a dissuading grunt. There’s a soft whisper of _not tonight_ that graces his ear, almost silent under his breath, followed by the slightest shake of his head. He nods in understanding, slipping his flaccid cock back into his breeches, and threading his fingers through No One’s hair.  Tenderness envelopes them once more, simply enjoying being so close to one another.

Minutes pass as they stand there, neither so inclined to move, and so relaxed in a way that they start to sway gently. No One steps back first, he was the one keeping the other man pressed to the wall, and gestures to the bed. The druffalo wool blanket is folded slowly. Thom has already stripped to his socks and breeches by the time No One had taken off his shirt. He pulls him into a kiss once more, steering him towards the bed as he blew out the lanterns in the room.

Night surrounds them quickly, the sound of the ever-burning fire fading into mindless background noise. Thom holds the covers open for No One to slip in beside him, his iron teeth gently placed inside his mouth, and they curl together without issue. They lay awake together, No One’s ear pressed to Thom’s chest to hear the steady beating of his heart. He draws circles in the man’s chest hair, watching the small strands bend under the pressure of his finger.

“What did you mean earlier?” He whispers. His voice is naught but a rumble in his chest, the ministrations lulling him calmly to sleep, and No One picks up his head to stare at the man. There wasn’t much to see in such darkness, only small flecks of firelight illuminated the barest lengths of one another. No One could see better than the average man though, and he could see the sleepy concern on Thom’s face.

“About?” No One hums, hoping that he isn’t going to say exactly what he thinks he will. He had steeled himself to tell Thom about his legs, to throw caution into the wind and just strip himself from his breeches. But his fear had caught up to him, burying him in nerves until he couldn’t think about that option any longer.

“Being clear?” Thom stares at the other man, trying to figure out exactly what he was thinking with as little as he could see. No One had thought about this earlier; after he had left Thom with Pavus. Sitting upon the ramparts and twirling the remains of a burnt log in hand, how he could go about telling him what he was. Caldwell’s unknowing and Andrastopher’s slaughter, how the latter had him on a leash as did the Piss Merchant, and he had no idea how much the Inquisition knew about him. It all reminded him that time was fleeting, and your options may be taken from you if you do not act quickly enough.

Thom was incredible, Thom was probably the best thing to happen to him in years, Thom was giving him another chance to do what he had failed at before. He was the only man that No One felt able to trust nowadays, and by whatever gods were out there, Thom did things to his heart. No One didn’t want to lose that, of course he didn’t, but he knew having him falsely was the same as not having him at all.

“Give me your hand.” He whispers, willing his fading voice not to shake and stammer. Within the darkness it doesn’t matter so much, Thom wouldn’t be able to see the scars that malformed his skin. To feel them was something of a smaller step. Thom can hear No One shuffling beneath the sheets, tugging at the knot in his breeches until they fall loose about his waist. The man sits up as he slips from them, balling them up in his hands and fiddling with the fabric.

He takes Thom’s hand in his own, still clutching his breeches in the other. It fills him with a sense of dread, wondering why No One was acting so strangely. The fingers are almost fearful, afraid to touch the skin of No One’s thigh that they are led to. They land upon the lances, the grooves and inch wide that cut so deeply into the flesh of his leg. Thom frowns at the sensation. They were both covered in scars, another wasn’t so bad.

At first, he can only feel the one, a single valley across his thigh. Until No One brings the pads of his fingertips across another, another, another, like endless waves in an ocean. It brings Thom’s brows together, a slither of confusion threading into his chest. This brought more questions than the one it intended to answer. But he hears the shuddering breath from No One’s lungs, and removes his hand from his thigh. Whatever this was to the man, it was clearly stressful, even in the darkness. Thom brings No One’s knuckles to his lips, kissing them with a sniff.

No One gives a small laugh of relief, dropping his breeches over the side of the bed, and climbing over the other man. He kisses him tenderly, mouth open in reminiscence of the desire that fuelled them earlier. Thom’s hands clasp at his waist, wary of the injuries across his thigh. They pull away from each other, and he waits until No One settles at his side before he plants his lips against his forehead, bidding him a murmur of goodnight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Fais attention à ce que tu dis." : Be careful what you say.  
> "Beau." : Handsome/Beautiful.
> 
> (I apologise because my French isn't that good, sorry.)


	41. Pride

No One stares at himself in Thom’s vanity mirror. The scars that ripped into his thigh still sang with memories of agony, nothing of what Thom had done last night had made him feel any better about them. But he hadn’t voiced the questions that must have come to mind, and that is what had begun to offer comfort to the blonde. That particular assault would probably begin when the other man awoke; and, for the first time, he felt like he should stay to endure that.

He places his fingers at the thinnest part of each scar, dragging them through the valleys and twisting at his waist. The werewolf probably didn’t even want to kill him, it probably knew that he was the least threatening out of all of them. A blessing even as it hounded him through the years. He hears Thom shuffling in the bed, rolling over and sighing at the new position. For half a second he freezes, wondering if it was possible to grab his breeches to cover himself should he awaken.

Sunrise would be in an hour; No One had spent the last few simply lying there, imagining a thousand other scenarios that could have happened in his life. Thinking about Adeline. Those thoughts had been the ones to force him out of bed. Remembering his family only made him think of Caldwell, and how unjust it was that he should remain with his, but the young elf would not. Thom had been right, Caldwell deserved to know, but not from him. A cruel fate it would be for a werewolf to tell him of the slaughter of his family at the hands of such beasts.

It is something that No One had tried desperately not to think of ever since he had heard the news. He had pieced enough information together to know clan Maelarith died during the fifth blight, and where was he during that time? No One looks away, unable to even face himself in the mirror. He could have been one of those beasts in the forest. Perhaps that is why he felt such guilt, even though he could not bring himself to think of it, to imagine that he had been the one to kill Caldwell’s family. A cruel fate indeed, but only one of them deserved it as such.

He couldn’t know for certain, not now or ever. It would be something to haunt him for the rest of his days. When he had awoken from his bestial form he hadn’t believed a blight had happened. People had frowned at him with malice, believing him to be one of the people who denied the blight, and things had only gotten worse from there. No One had read as many history books as he could that documented the event. It was easy to lie and say he had endured such trials, instead of admitting he hadn’t any memories of it at all.

There were worse thoughts that came with such. Werewolves would spread their curse through injury, or something or the sort; No One can’t really remember the later part of the night, he thinks he must have passed out at some point. The scars on his thigh didn’t tell any falsehoods. But he had been a werewolf for a decade, and how many others he had harmed in that time, there was no way of knowing. Some things he didn’t want to know entirely, an enlightening book called _Cycles of Mythical Creatures_ , had been a painful thing to read. For it had not been about moon cycles but mating cycles.

Remembering the passages of that book brings a shudder to his frame. He shrugs it off as best he can and quietly steps back into his breeches, tying them at the waist and sitting on the edge of Thom’s bed. A book still rests on the chest beside the bed; _In Pursuit of Knowledge: The Travels of a Chantry Scholar_ , it’s mostly drivel, one of a kind widespread drivel, but drivel all the same. It’s not captivating enough to pull No One’s attention from the sleeping man. The paragraphs seem to melt away in favour of watching him rest. To see how the lines and crevices along his face seem to smoothen out, a calming peace that blankets him through the night.

“Are you watching me?” Thom grumbles, it causes No One to flinch back at being caught. He hadn’t known the man wasn’t sleeping. Whilst he isn’t embarrassed at Thom’s recognition, he hasn’t prepared himself for the questions the man would no doubt wish to ask. It had felt different when the other man had handled them. Like he couldn’t sense all the memories that came with the injuries, like they weren’t so awfully cataclysmic to his lifetime.

“You’re awake?” He whispers, closing the book and setting it in his lap. No One swallows thickly around the anxiety that starts to bud in his throat. Hoping, internally, that Thom doesn’t ask anything about the marring on his thigh.

“You woke me up getting out of bed,” He sniffs and rolls onto his back, the chill from yesterday not quite beaten, “figured I’d let you think through whatever you were thinking of.” Thom rolls his wrist loosely and scrubs at his face with the other hand. It was too early to be awake when he didn’t have to be, but he had thought No One was having another nightmare. Climbing out of bed like that and just standing in the middle of the room, staring into nothingness.

“Were you watching me?” No One feels a worse dread begin to circle in his gut. Last night had been a step towards telling Thom about the scars on his leg, but that was the only step he was willing to take right now. If he was watching him, then he would have seen it, and the choice had been taken from No One’s hands without consent.

“A bit, I turned over to give you some privacy.” Thom pushes himself up on his elbows, staring at the other man with tired eyes.

“So,” He swallows hard, chewing on his teeth before he whispers, “you saw?” The iron caps dig unpleasantly into his gums where they rise higher than the natural curve of his teeth, and he swallows the copper taste of his own blood.

“They’re just scars, No One, I’ve dozens of them.”

“Just scars.” he repeats, scoffing and standing from the bed. Thom sits up to stop him from leaving, but he watches as No One roughly tugs the knot in his breeches, letting them fall in a pool upon the floor. He turns back to the other man, completely naked, and gestures to the malformation upon his thigh.

The valleys upon his thigh look worse than they felt. Ragged pink lines that seemed a lot deeper than Thom thought they were, longer too, from how No One had explored them earlier. It’s obvious they’re not the most usual of wounds, and something must have happened to him for them to heal like that; as if the skin had been stretched and pulled apart so either side could not mend back together. Either that or it hadn’t been a clean-cut wound, and that it was more like a deep carving to remove entire lumps of flesh, an infection perhaps.

“There’s a bit, just to the side of,” Thom waves his hand loosely gesturing to No One, “I mean it’s a bit more distracting than the scars.” It makes him look down upon his legs, as if has something stuck there, before glancing back with a frown. Thom grins at him, waggling his eyebrows for a second to get his meaning across. No One hasn’t really ever been the kind of man to face his problems from the front. Thom had been around him long enough to figure that out for himself, and it was obvious that the man liked his distractions. And sex, well, they both enjoyed that.

“You, Thom Rainier, are a fool.” He says, sucking on his lower lip to stop the smile that pulls at his lips. Bloody idiot, he thinks, cupping a hand over his cock to stop the other man staring.

“Come here.” Thom pats the bed beside him. No One follows the order without complaint, kneeling on the bed and moving to straddle Thom’s thighs. He feels palms start to warm his knees and begin to travel up the length of his leg.

“Don’t,” No One pulls the other man’s hand from the scars, “don’t.” People had seen them before, people had touched them before, he’d even had one man who had dragged his tongue through all of them. But none of those were Thom. They had all be one-night lovers who wouldn’t see him the next day, if ever. He hadn’t lied to them as he had to Thom.

“No One, I don’t find fault with them.” He says, open and honest. Thom tilts No One’s face back to him, staring into the fading grey of his eyes. It would be a poor man to find fault with such things, but he knew people who had done so.

He’s reminded of a man he knew in his days as an Orlesian Captain. Yves, his name was, ended up on the wrong end of a maleficar’s spell that tore away at most of his face and neck. It was a hard journey of recovery, one made much harder without his wife. Maker but he’d wanted words with her, how shallow she had been to run out on him when he had needed her most.

No One had scars on his face too, he couldn’t hide those under baggy breeches. It didn’t take anything away from his beauty, and if Thom couldn’t find those attractive then he wouldn’t even be sharing a bed with him. Thom was lucky enough to have kept his face mostly intact. He had a scar hidden under his hair from when he had a particularly nasty fall as a child, and there’s a dent in his jaw which would be obvious if he shaved.

“I know, but I do.” No One says it looks away, unable to face the other man. “And, I’d rather you didn’t go out of your way to try and fix that.”

“No touching then?” He says, “but here, this is fine?” Thom adds with a whisper; his knuckles grace the softened skin of No One’s cock with a touch that was barely there.

“Yes.” He nods, feeling the smile tugging at his lips once more.

“You mind if I kiss you? I haven’t cleaned my teeth.” Thom presses his lips against No One’s jaw, waiting for an answer. The man tugs himself back for a moment, fingers slipping into his own mouth and pulling out the iron teeth. As he leans to place them on the chest beside the bed he pushes Thom until he is lying on his back.

With a hand firmly on the other man’s chest he readjusts how he is sitting; spreading his legs a bit wider and pushing himself up on to his knees. He turns away from Thom, wary not to kick the man in the face as he moves, and unties the laces of his breeches. No One pushes them down with little grace until Thom can kick them off, his toes snagging in the hem of his socks to quickly rid himself of those as well.

Thom has the most glorious view of the other man’s arse, and with earlier protests, makes sure to avoid the ragged skin of his thigh before gently squeezing at the flesh. It makes No One’s hips roll, pressing against the weight of his palms. His thumbs press into the crevice of him, separating his cheeks slightly, enough to bring a cool air upon him. He can feel No One’s fingers upon his thighs, how his fingernails begin to bite into him, he can see how he suppresses the shudder that climbs his spine. Thom pulls his hand back, sticking his thumb in his mouth and swiping it along the inside of his cheek. Wet, he places it against No One’s opening, almost jealous that he can’t see the man’s face for the expressions he would be making.

A hand grasps at his own, dragging his fingers around his waist and up to his chest, forcing Thom to sit up with the movement, his chest pressed tightly against No One’s back. He kisses him wetly between his shoulder blades. The blonde hair is pulled forward across his shoulders, bearing the ragged skin at the top of his spine to Thom’s eyes.

This scar was different, No One had no issues in showing this to him. It looked no less painful; though very obviously the remnants of flayed skin. Thom kisses him across the scarring ripples, letting his teeth drag against him; his breath heavier when No One reaches down to spread himself, letting Thom’s cock press into the open valley of his arse cheeks. It would be so much better with oil, he tries to think where some would be, it wasn’t as if he’d had much need for it before.

Thom spits into his own hand, reaching around to grab No One’s cock in what little wetness he could supply. Laughter rumbles through his chest, head falling back on Thom’s shoulders and kissing what he could reach. His hips rise and fall ever so slightly, his arse dragging against Thom’s cock with a tightened grip and his own sex pressing into the cavity of his fist.

A slow rhythm forms between them, a display only accompanied by open mouthed moans, hushed in the morning hour. Thom’s hand wanders across the other man’s torso, nails dragging against the waves of his ribs, catching the swell of his nipple and pressing against it apologetically. No One’s hand tangles in Thom’s hair. It’s something to keep him anchored in this world, to know that Thom is behind him, beginning to sweat against him with pleasure. Pre-come wetness slips from both of them, lubricating their cocks and allowing No One to ride him faster, to fuck his fist, faster. He leans back to watch his cock slide in between No one’s cheeks, glistening and red with arousal.

“Oh, Maker.” Thom groans. He spreads No One’s arse further apart with his thumbs, it’s a short-lived pleasure when No One twists at his waist to grab at the hand that had abandoned his cock. He turns in his lap to sit across his sideways, wrapping an arm across his shoulders, and biting at his neck. No One lets his legs separate and angles his hips so that Thom’s fingers, wet with pre-come, can press into the crevice of his arse again.

“If I were a woman, Thom.” he moans, his hips thrusting and his legs shaking in a mocking high-pitched orgasm. Thom huffs out his laughter, bringing No One to kiss him, and dropping him to lay on his back. He clambers between his spread legs, yanking him towards him by his hips and grunting when their cocks press against each other.

Neither of them bothers to grab at their sexes, instead they cling to each other with a desperation. With splayed fingers and spread thighs. They rut with an ever-changing pace; faster and harder until it pulls them too close to the edge and slowing until they barely have any friction at all.

“Pull up the sheets.” No One breathes, dragging the blankets on the bed until they’re entirely enveloped beneath them. It casts them further into darkness, denying the sunrise that slowly crept up on them. Things become warmer, rapidly enough that a flush is brought to both of them. Thom can feel droplets forming upon his face, running the length of his crooked nose and dropping into the hollow of No One’s scarred collarbone.

He bites at the man’s chest, already he can see the reddening skin that his beard had worn away at, no doubt he’d have something similar for the stubble that graced No One’s jaw. Thom watches as the other man’s eyes begin to flutter, half lidded and struggling to stay open. His teeth, his real teeth and not those iron caps, peek out to chew upon his lips. In such low light his eyes seem almost black, darkening to a point where he almost looks like a debauched royal.

“No One.” Thom whispers, pushing at the strands of damp hair that stick to his face. He pulls at the length of his moustache, how it trails strangely across his features, and sets it so it seems to drape down to his chest. His calloused fingers drag down across his sweating torso, following the prickles of his body hair and ignoring the silver scar that lines him.

“Thom.” No One says. He angles his head up to bring him down into a kiss, moaning when Thom laces their fingers together to pin him to the bed. Their hips begin to work together again, grinding with a weight of pleasure behind them. They don’t bother to stifle their moans and gasps, tasting each other’s voices as much as their tongues.

He arches up from the bed, his hips rising to seek out Thom’s with more intent. Heels dig into his arse, dowsing out any space that might remain between them. The heat under the blanket is stifling, but it doesn’t matter, neither of them are willing to move those few inches away to remove the covers upon them. Even as their guts begin to heat and they begin to lose grip with sweat. Their orgasms have been built and rebuilt until they can’t delay it any longer. The pleasure that surrounds them is suffocating, dragging them into a blinding tundra, and elevating them to unseen euphoric heights.

Thom pulls back first, panting heavily, and grinning loosely at the sight of bliss upon the other man. No One does nothing but release a breathy laugh, pursing his lips for Thom to kiss them. He groans as he relaxes his legs, his thighs and knees aching from the position. They’re both messed. Glazed in a drying sweat with their come between them.

“You think the sun has risen yet?” No One whispers, his fingers glancing the blanket above them, beginning to filter in the morning light.

“Not if we stay in here.” Thom murmurs. It brings a different kind of warmth to the heat under the blanket, the kind of feeling that he knows he’ll remember forever. No One can’t help but laugh as he pulls Thom down towards him; a fool indeed.

Andrastopher had forced the recruits to ride through the night, leaving Skyhold yesterday afternoon and continuing through. They had stopped to water the horses, to give the animals a rest, but had not taken one themselves. It wasn’t something that had been well accepted by the group, most had grown agitated with the hours that passed. He had explained it as a way to get them back into a routine, and also a test to see how they functioned without sleep. The Deep Roads often threw out a sense of time, and many a Warden had spent several days awake without sleeping down there.

He hadn’t given them an explanation, which had made matters worse, but none had stood to argue with him. The Warden Commander had pulled half of them from the cells of Skyhold, and it was a debt yet unpaid. Four had not come as prisoners; quite obviously Lei, his intended apprentice, Kina, a mage who was glad to be rid of what she claimed to be Skyhold’s circle, Xanthe, a warrior who wanted to push herself further, and Dian, a surface dwarf who had only come topside a few years prior.

Only eight had chosen to make the journey. If he were to admit it, the group was more than he had been expecting, so many of the Joinings he had orchestrated had only been for two or three recruits. Even then not all of them had survived. He glanced back to count the heads following him, lingering for a moment on Lei. The young man was holding too much of his faith. Andrastopher looks forward before Lei could catch him staring, and he turns to find Oscar gazing at him with a pinch in his brows. _Vashedan_.

The scout breaks the stare first, wondering exactly what in the void was going on. He and Andras had been doing something for seven weeks now, and yet, they hadn’t even kissed. Nothing had happened between them. Oscar chews on his tongue, he couldn’t have read things wrong. Perhaps he wasn’t young enough, or strong enough, Lei was both of those things, barely in his twenties and could probably lift a druffalo all by himself.

Jealousy begins to coil in his gut uncomfortably; nobody could compare to the son of the Herald of Andraste, and nobody could offer anything near it. He wills himself not to turn back to the group behind him. Why he cared for Andras so much was beyond him, why he wanted the man so much wasn’t within his reach either. The man had charm, and he spoke with a grace and chose his words carefully, and perhaps the imposing figure he could cut worked in his favour as well.

Oscar begins to curse his fluttering attraction to the Warden Commander. The envy that it had seeded in his belly, it felt vile and like a constantly shifting weight. He would get him alone and ask after what exactly they were doing; too many times he had danced around the subject before and gotten hurt, to suffer it again only made it feel like he was destined to fail at love.

The more the thoughts remain with him the more they begin to turn out of control. Andras and the Inquisitor’s son were often together, and Oscar hadn’t seen him interacting with the other recruits as he had with Lei. He tries to convince himself there are other reasons, but he cannot smother that sole intrusion.

Andrastopher knows that Oscar will have taken a blow from this, and it’s too early for him to have found out anything of Leliana’s plans. He curses himself inwardly and decides to say nothing on it. If he doesn’t bring attention to whatever Oscar believes he saw, then it would be easier for the other man to deny. But he knew exactly what the scout would be thinking; jealousy and confusion had filled the man’s face to a point where it was undeniable. He knows there’s two ways he can go about this, and he knows that only one is acceptable.

“What’s this Joining about then?” Colt sniffs, chewing through his travelling rations with an open mouth as they rode. He would be through his entire satchel by the time they camped tonight. “We’ve already proved we can fight, what else is there?” The words bring Andrastopher from his thoughts, turning instead to face the man who rode beside him. They had only proved they had potential to be Wardens by friendly sparring.

Colt was a baby-faced man, who despite his age, hadn’t yet lost the fullness to his cheeks. Deep brown eyes and a yet to be styled curl to his hair, he was a man who relied on his youthful appearance for his crimes. People were less likely to convict a boy who was barely off his mother’s skirts. Still, it hadn’t stopped them.

“If you’re going to talk to me, you’ll use the appropriate titles. I shan’t suffer any less.” Andrastopher says, without glancing from the road ahead. They rode two abreast, taking up half of the pathway to Skyhold. The people who travelled in the opposite direction stepped from their path with few protests, save for a few questioning looks.

“Oh? That fucker calls you Andras.” He gestures to Oscar who rides a few yards ahead, the man in question turning back with a frown at the insult; something else to sour his mood. Andrastopher offers him a look before glancing up into the trees, this wasn’t the safest route to take. Colt reaches over to jab at the Warden Commander, his horse complaining at the shift in weight, and stepping away from the path for a moment. Colt clears his throat a few times, coughing to grab Andrastopher’s attention but ultimately failing.

Colt’s charade causes a few other recruits to laugh at him, finding humour in the thief’s desperation for an answer. He had been antsy in the jail cell, a constant fidget, both with his body and his voice. The man had an unending supply of energy that he had no idea what to do with. A few months more in that cell would have driven him mad. He was the only one who seemed to have some vigour about him after a night in the saddle, though perhaps that was the food.

“I think you’re supposed to use his title, idiot.” Annelise calls from behind them. She has a heavy lisp but it doesn’t cut away at the bite in her tone. Annelise had been pending trial for banditry, she had only been caught because one of her men had turned back to fire an arrow through her leg. A betrayal she swore blind that she’d kill that man for; that had been the reason Andrastopher had claimed her life and denied the sentencing, revenge was a thrilling thing to lust for.

 “ _Ser_.” Colt says, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

“Eavesdropping is an unsightly attribute, Colt.” Andrastopher says. He turns back to look at Annelise for a moment, who sticks her lower jaw out in protest. Or perhaps it was pride. The Warden Commander hopes that she’ll survive the Joining, there’s a fire in her that shouldn’t be smothered by a darkspawn cocktail.

“I always thought eavesdropping made me a better thief.” He puffs out his chest with pride, grinning with a mouth full of dried fruits.

“Better perhaps, but still not very good.” Andrastopher says, watching as the man deflates with offense. Colt had been caught pilfering nobles’ things, and because of how much he had stolen an extended sentence was given. Things were returned to their owners, and Skyhold was a single thief less.

Goddard’s sentencing had been one thing that Andrastopher had been unsure of. The man was full of mercy, giving sentences which rarely resulted in harm, he had even employed the mage who had thrown them into the future. But it sat ill with him, the people loved him, and love could spoil quickly. Few would follow a man they hated willingly, yet they would do so all the same.

“Oi, just because I got caught doesn’t mean I wasn’t any good.” Colt scoffs. He is a damn good thief, even if he wasn’t so good at the fleeing part of his plans.

“It does.”

“You weren’t ever a thief; how would you know?” Colt huffs, sulking like a child. He purses his lips and sags in his saddle, shoving the small bag of rations back into his pack and huffing again. The Warden Commander wouldn’t know much about thieving, he was a noble man, doubtless the only thing he ever stole was food from his own larder. He wouldn’t have lived rough like the rest of them, wondering where his next meal would come from, afraid that he might not even make it there.

“You’re not very good at eavesdropping either.” Andrastopher drawls. He pulls his hood quickly over his head, pulling the scarf tighter around his face so that nothing but his eyes could be visible. The cold was biting, and he did not trust those on the mountain path.

He remembers his own days as a thief fondly. There were few who were willing to aid the Grey Warden’s during the blight, Loghain had declared them enemies of the crown after all, and it meant they were short of coin more often than not. Jobs from a chanter’s board never paid that well, Ignacio did, but those jobs were few and far between.

Slim Couldry had spotted them straight away; desperate folk who didn’t look too well off, desperate folk who’d do anything for a few coppers for something nice to eat. The Dark Wolf they had called him, something to inspire fear in the nobility of Thedas. It had worked, and people now clutched their purses tighter when they shopped in Denerim. But he had hung up that mantle for now, mostly, he had killed anyone who dared to wear it; to claim his work as their own. It was lazy, and it marred his reputation. Evidently, people hadn’t yet figured out who the Dark Wolf was, which suited Andrastopher well.

It was better that people made assumptions about him that weren’t true. The rumours would allow the truths to be disguised and hidden, locked away so that nobody could see them nor believe them. If people were inclined to believe falsehoods, well, that was their own shortfall.

“How did you get them scars? Do all Wardens have beards? Why do you have tattoos on your face? Why don’t the Grey Wardens wear _grey_? We’re not the bloody Blue Wardens.” Colt prattles off his questions quickly, trying to reengage him in conversation. Andrastopher holds his tongue, knowing that the younger man would be worn out far quicker than he would himself. “I thought you said we were supposed to spend the day riding with you, Ser.” Colt grunts. It had been a decision made, and clearly stated, by the Warden Commander. A twelve-day travel, now cut to eleven, to Amaranthine was ahead of them, and Andrastopher had eight recruits with him. He would know them all by the time they came upon the Joining, and he would give those who died a dedicated pyre and a dedicated prayer to their Gods.

It was mere bad decision that Colt had decided to go first. His constant babble had been irritating to a point. When he wasn’t talking he was eating, and they settled at the same tone of annoyance and volume. Regardless he would endure. It wasn’t just about learning about which rights to give to the dead, but it also helped him to create an idea of what kind of people they were, especially of those who would survive. Andrastopher knew much of Lei already. But these others, he knew only of their crimes and their ability to spar. Colt was, after travelling through the night beside him, becoming easier to read with every minute that passed.

“Riding, not bombarding me with inane chatter.” Andrastopher states. He was not here to be interrogated, and he hadn’t been half as annoying as Colt during the journey to his own Joining. Rather he assumed before that he hadn’t been, he can imagine dealing with himself now would be rather irritating. Duncan did eventually have him restrained to stop him from escaping a fourth time, the horse hadn’t been pleased with having to carry two fully grown men through thick undergrowth to Ostagar.

“I only want to know what the Joining is about, Ser.” He shrugs. That had been the only question which truly mattered in the end, it had been the only question that had any weight behind it. The infamous Grey Warden Joining Ritual. Something every recruit must go through, and something every recruit must hold as a secret.

“Then you will wait, as the rest of them do.” He says, inclining his head towards the small troop that followed them.

“I’ll break you, by the end of the day you’ll be begging me to stop talking.” He says, his mouth splitting into a grin, clearing his throat for what is bound to be the worst sing-along Andrastopher has ever had to suffer. Colt begins with a whining version of _Nightingale’s Eyes_ , and Andrastopher figures it to be a sort of bad luck that it is that song chosen. There were worse songs to sing, _The Ballad o’ Andras the Brave_ was something of an annoyance. Though someone else would snap at him before Andrastopher did.

The Iron Bull had woken with a mumbling Dorian plastered to his side. Nothing of what came out of his mouth made much sense, but Bull wasn’t trying too hard to concentrate on it. He was thrilled that the mage spent more time here, had spent his nights here, and began to leave the room in the daylight where people might see him. No longer did he hide who he was from strangers who were inclined to judge.

Grey fingers gently brush through the mess of Dorian’s hair, pulling the strands to conform into something that didn’t resemble a nest. He might be able to face the crowds with Bull on his arm, but he wouldn’t see them when he looked so plainly fucked. Dorian had standards that remained as unbreakable as the rest of him. Another mumble slips from the mage, and it brings a stuttered laugh from Bull. These mornings, when he could lay in bed and begin to squash the voice in him telling him to get up and work, were absolute bliss.

A few more minutes, he promises himself, before he carefully climbs from their bed. Still too Qunari to spend a day without the need to do something for gain. He’s still keeping a watchful eye on Andrastopher, or rather _Tallis_ , and the way he sticks to a routine could put any born Qunari to shame.

Every morning he would return from hunting. He was here to find a werewolf; spending his nights in the area surrounding Skyhold made sense. Bull still wanted to follow him yet had refrained from such actions. He knew Andrastopher could not get too far from the fortress with the time he spent out there, and there were no landmarks which he could reach. Cabot serves him a large bowl of pottage and he waits for the Warden Commander to return to his room. The minutes pass slowly, and Bull takes another bowl, and Andrastopher still doesn’t arrive. Others do, but not the one he’s looking for.

“Chief.” Krem sits beside him, a bowl in his hands, and inhales it quickly. Bull gives him a grin and shifts to give him more room to sit upon the bench. “He left last night.” Krem says quieter, knowing that Bull has been watching the man, if only because he told him. He wasn’t the best at spying, but he knew enough not to get caught at it.

“Where?” Bull sniffs, he has to inform Red.

“Don’t know, Rocky was pissed that Dian had gone, he was getting sweet on her.” Krem almost laughs as he said it. Dian had been born in Orzammar too, and they had found that they had immeasurable amounts in common. The only difference was that Dian wanted to return, being a Grey Warden may allow her that, and Rocky preferred being topside. “Said she was undertaking the Joining.”

“Thanks, Krem.” He squeezes his shoulder a moment before standing with a stretch to his back. It wasn’t unusual, Bull thought, for the Warden Commander to have committed to a Joining. The man had managed to collect a few willing participants. Half of them from the cells, but still a few. Red still deserved to know, especially since he had seen that scout sniffing around more often than not.

He leaves the tavern without gaining any attention, and wonders whether he should have left a note for Dorian before. It wouldn’t be too long before he could slip back into bed, and possibly back into the mage himself.

Varric offers him a seat in the grand hall, stacks of noted vellum beside him. Nothing important unless you were as avid a fan as Cassandra was. Bull waves him off with a promise to join him later. They hadn’t played cards in a long time, and his coin purse was getting heavy.

Leliana is praying at the small alter of Andraste when he finds her. She kneels down with her hands clasped tightly, muttering under her breath of words to the Maker. Bull thinks of what she might be praying for, guidance, assurance, forgiveness, her words are quick and silent under her breath. She stands with grace, brushing the dirt from her knees before turning to face him. He hadn’t hidden his entrance, and she knew he had been waiting for her to finish.

“The Warden Commander’s gone.” Bull says. He takes a seat by Leliana’s desk and keeps his eyes averted from the open letters upon there. She’s not likely to have left anything important on display, but he’s being polite, and she’s noticing it.

“Gone?” She asks, she hadn’t any report of the man leaving. Nor had the man informed her of his actions. Neither of them particularly liked each other, for varying reasons, but she was the Inquisition’s spymaster and he should have told her.

“He’s usually back in the tavern by midday, but he hasn’t returned yet.” Bull shrugs. “I checked around, heard he left with a group of recruits last night.” He was partially lying to her, but he trusted Krem’s information more than most others.

“Who was with him?” She asks. The Warden Commander had not fulfilled his duty of culling the werewolf, nor finding out who it was. Leaving so suddenly would affect how much faith the Inquisition could put in him later, if they needed to. 

“A few people, Dian, Lawrence, Annalise, Quincy,” Bull reels off the names he knew from over hearing Dian talking to Rocky. “One of your scouts too, Oscar I think.” That was a guess at best, he had seen the two together a lot, and he always saw him on a Firesday morning. If Oscar hadn’t turned up, and nobody had seen the Warden Commander slip out of the fortress, then it was most likely that Oscar had gone with him.

“And Lei Mi’Durgen?” Leliana asks. As far as her scouts had reported, Maxence hadn’t received a visit from the young man. She had remined hopeful that he would come to see sense and see how Andrastopher was using him, but perhaps she had given him too much credit in that regard. The Warden Commander had shown him an amicability, which lent him more trust than Lei would have given to the Inquisition after certain missteps.  

“Probably.”

“Thank you, Bull.”

“Red.” Bull stops her from pulling out letters to read, and she knows it’s serious by the tone he’s using. “Andrastopher is Qunari, Ben-Hassrath, his name is Tallis; it means _to solve_.” Leliana can remember her interactions with another Tallis;  a young red-headed elven woman, and the shock at seeing her in the company of the Champion of Kirkwall in Chateau Haine. Tallis was an assassin, she was a thief, and so is Warden Commander Andrastopher Cousland.

“When did you find this out?” She lets her anger show on her face, to let Bull know what she thought. One Qunari spy had been enough, even if he now worked on their side, it had been something of an effort to keep on track of all of his letters.

Though there is a deeper and more unsettling feeling that begins to brew inside of her. Oscar, who was a dear friend and a trusted ally, was travelling with him. He wasn’t the sort to convert to the Qun. But she hadn’t expected the Warden Commander to either, he was in control of the entire Ferelden arm of the Grey Wardens and to think they could be used again like Corypheus had done to them. It makes her anxious, and it begins to fuel a fury inside of her.

“I saw him during his training, didn’t think too much of it until he turned up here. I never got any information on him arriving before.” Bull confesses, unable to say the words _before I became Tal-Vashoth_ , and watching how Leliana’s expressions steel over. It should have been something to tell the Inquisition as soon as he knew, but he figured it would be something they would find out themselves. They would have figured out his own intentions quickly enough that it’s odd they haven’t checked on the Warden Commander’s background.

Though, Andrastopher did hide his intentions well. Bull had seen a glimpse of his tattoos through a half open door, they bore similar markings to that of vitaar, though not enough to arouse suspicion. He did have Chasind marks scrawling across his face, taking from other cultures could easily be explained away.

“You’ve known this entire time and you haven’t said anything?” Leliana scolds him, showing a fraction of her anger and hiding the remainder. She didn’t trust him any longer.

“I’m saying something now.” He grunts.

“Now that he has the Inquisitor’s son and is only a week’s travel behind his daughter.” She says, pulling out her writing kit and the expensive vellum of the Inquisition. “Leave, Bull.”

“He’s not going to kill them.” He says. Whatever Andrastopher’s intentions were, whether he was acting as Tallis or simply waiting for the next instruction, was something that Bull didn’t know. But there was little point in denying the camaraderie that had bloomed between him and the Inquisitor’s bastard son.

“I’m not willing to give him that chance.” Leliana points to the staircase, waiting until Bull leaves before beginning her letter. The Warden Commander would only be a day from Skyhold, so scouts could be sent to find him quickly enough. If he was traveling with Oscar she at least knew where he would be. The only issue she faced was whether her own scouts could arrive quickly enough, and with an irrefutable reason, to watch him.

She pens the names of the scouts still situated with the Ferelden monarchy. After the Venatori had invaded their home it made sense to have a few scouts lingering there, with every permission from Queen Anora herself. They would be able to see Lady Twyla and her family arrive at the docks of Amaranthine, and the scouts delivering the news to Oscar could see her back home safely. The others could ride through the Coastlands, making sure to pass Andrastopher, to ensure that Lei remains well.

Leliana had been too hasty in sending Lei’s refusal to Commander Cullen. Now the boy could be in danger, and the Inquisition had no compulsion to aid him. From what little she had been able to find out about the Grey Warden Joining ritual, she knew there was the chance of fatality. Leliana glances briefly out of her window, she had played a part in what could be the orchestration of the death of Lei Mi’Durgen; son of the Herald of Andraste.

Thom and No One had spent the rest of the morning in bed, lying together naked with little else to do. It was considerably romantic, compared to what No One had in his memories of past lovers, he can’t remember ever truly wanting to stay in bed with someone without the prospect of sex. It’s obvious enough that time hadn’t stopped for them under the blanket, and the need to eat and bathe loomed over them quickly enough.

A bath was ordered, and a few maids brought buckets of water up to fill the tub.  The room must have smelt of sex, the maids’ faces were evident enough that they knew the basics of what had happened between the two men recently. No One had said the public bathhouse was as good as any, and it would be a lot easier. But Thom was inclined to extend their morning together. The other man was opening up more and more, and he didn’t want him to rebuild the walls when they re-entered public life.

They had spoken about unimportant things mostly. Eventually coming to argue over who was the best jousting knight, to which No One constantly called them jousters, taking away their ranking title. Something Thom tried to correct every time, something that went unheard by the blonde.

“I’m just saying, jousting doesn’t make you a knight. Any man can sit astride a horse with a lance in hand.” No One shrugs. He leans back on the edge of the tub, his arms outstretched and lining the rim. His hair is tied in a messy knot above his head, and the trails of his moustache are threaded over the curl of his ear; allowing them to dry out of the reach of the bathwater.

“That’s not all jousting is.” Thom says, stilling for a moment as he scrubs his beard clean.

“Right, of course, I mean you have to hold the lance on a bouche or in the rest.” He mimics the motion and rolls his eyes. Jousting wasn’t so hard, easy enough to pick up. No One thinks it should be a more difficult sport for how dangerous it could be. Too many times he had heard tales of those who had died when the duel had turned ill; lances in throats, lances through the chest, one man even had a falling horse and pierced his lance through his opponent’s head.

“Not a fan of jousting then.” Thom raises an eyebrow and scoops up water to wash out the suds from his beard.

“My uncle, remember? Lance went straight through his thigh, he wasn’t even supposed to be in the tourney.” He glances down at his own scarred thigh, hidden beneath soapy water. How strange that they should both suffer injuries to their legs, and that they should look so alike. So said his father when he was younger; the spitting image of Florent.

Thom feels insensitive for not remembering it precisely. But he knows the name of the other man’s uncle; Florent, he had retained that knowledge and any other name that No One would give him. Perhaps he shouldn’t. The other man was strict about his names despite how many aliases he had given himself over the time that Thom had known him. He hopes that one day No One will tell him his name, before he heard it from someone else’s lips.

“But any man can joust, according to you.” Thom jabs at him with his toe, prodding the man in his ankle. It dispels the sombre look the blonde had obtained, replacing it with an iron-toothed grin.

“Ah, but my uncle was a knight, a _chevalier_ ,” it almost sounds prideful, the way he says it, “not a jouster, so jousting knights aren’t knights just because they’re jousters.”

“But some knights _can_ joust.” He counters, dragging his fingers through his wet hair in exasperation.

“But not every jouster is a knight.”

“You’re an idiot.” Thom laughs. He runs his hands over his face and slips further into the water. No One’s leg shifts the slightest bit closer, prodding the muscle of Thom’s thigh, grinning.

“I’m correct though.” He whispers, his voice bubbling into laughter that they both fall into. Thom squeezes No One’s ankle under the water, bringing it to rest between his own legs, so that he may rub at the callouses on his sole. Underneath he finds silver lines of old scars, and layers of hardened skin from walking barefoot. Awful feet, he thinks, beggar’s feet. Unbefitting of the nobleman he knows No One is.

It’s markedly nice, relaxing in a tub of steaming water with a partner inside. No One finds himself almost falling asleep when Thom’s hands begin to massage up his calves. He rubs the tip of his nose to cover the redness in his cheeks when Thom laughs at him for it. No One hadn’t slept in a while, and he didn’t think having a nightmare in the bath was the best thing he could do. But he would stay a little while longer, that wasn’t in doubt.

Oscar was the one who had taken point as they travelled. Andrastopher was content enough to allow the other man to lead them, he was the only one with a specific destination. He knew that for himself he would be able to pick up a darkspawn scent somewhere in the Bannorn and would detour for the Joining. As the hours had passed Andrastopher found himself growing wary of the path they travelled on. For whatever reason he could not give, it was only an inkling.

Colt had stopped singing hours ago. The group had only been able to endure it for a few songs, and he had been mostly quiet ever since. Andrastopher would glance back at the group every so often, and already he could see something forming between them. Even exhausted as they were growing to be, amicability hadn’t been spared.

Rain had come upon them at the foot of the Frostback Mountains, something to wrench them from the wintery hold they had lived in for so many weeks. His recruits had scrambled to pull up their hoods to defend themselves, most of them. Andrastopher had raised an eyebrow as Colt let the heavy water wash down on him. The younger man had just shrugged it off, he wasn’t too bothered by the weather, a good trait to have.

It’s only a slight movement that catches Andrastopher’s eye, something in the forestry around them. He doesn’t alert the group, not yet, but waits, watching with a keen eye. Something was moving in the forest ahead. It wasn’t darkspawn, and he doubted it would be Skyhold’s werewolf. But they were far enough from the normal roads that there was a chance of coming upon a fade rift, which meant demons of a varying sort.

The shape reappears a few minutes later, larger than Andrastopher had originally thought, but it is one he recognises instantly. _Pride_. He whistles, sharply, pulling the attention of the group around him, and with one pointing finger, spools a dread into all of them. Oscar turns his horse quietly, bringing him close enough to the group to speak to them without alerting the demon.

“We can’t get around.” He whispers. The Pride stood in their path, still and unmoving. They could wait for the demon to move on and hope it doesn’t notice the small troop behind it, but that would be an unwelcomed delay.

“Tie the horses,” he instructs Oscar, dismounting from his own and passing over the reins, “we’ll go through it.” It’s an unspoken command that Oscar doesn’t have to obey, but he lets the Warden Commander and his recruits take on the beast without him.

“We not even Grey Wardens yet.” Colt hisses, a few murmur in agreement.

“I didn’t think you cowards.” Andrastopher sneers, he turns to his mabaris, his voice strong and commanding, “Stay with the horses.” They let out the quietest whine, and Everleigh has to bite Oaklain’s ear to bring him under control. Andrastopher knows it is Lei’s job to command the youngest, but he has yet to give him that knowledge.

Lei is the first to dismount alongside him, tying his horse to the saddle of Andrastopher’s and letting Oscar lead them away. Others follow in his stead, gaining confidence with every Warden Recruit who sets boots on the ground. They ready their weapons silently, trying best to plan quickly on how to attack the giant demon. They fall under Andrastopher’s guidance swiftly; archers first, then warriors, their only mage Kina, and then finally the other two rogues.

Quincy and Dian leave the group with a nod, slipping into the undergrowth around them and awaiting Andrastopher’s signal. He lays a hand on Colt’s shoulder, the only other archer in the group, and brings him forward. Three of the four warriors create a shield wall in front of them. Silence falls upon them once more, and they wait with bated breath.

Andrastopher fires the first arrow. It sings through the air with grace, trailing blue through the rain, and sinking into the flesh of the beast’s thigh. The resulting howl is tremendous, even through the down pour, and the second arrow is loosed just as rapidly. The group watch in awe as the Pride steps towards them, watching how Andrastopher remains unphased as he fires arrow after arrow into the thighs of the demon.

Lei runs in when it comes too close, sword clashing on his own shield to bring attention to him. Xanthe, Lawrence and Annelise follow him, copying his movement to distract it enough that Andrastopher can continue to hail arrows upon it. Colt stands beside him, almost nervous as he draws his bow. Kina runs to the other side of the beast, trying to keep it from advancing too close to the group and their tied horses down the road.

“Aim for the thighs, higher than our allies, but with intent to pin the demon down,” Andrastopher says, taking a moment to tutor Colt, “our arrows won’t pierce the skull, but their blades will.” The younger man offers a nod, shakily taking an arrow and nocking it upon his bow. Colt was a thief, he wasn’t made for fighting, but he would be moulded so by this battle.

The Pride sweeps at the warriors with a heavy fist, intent on smacking them away. It roars with an open maw, pulling up wet soil and throwing it at the two archers. Andrastopher starts to flee the area but watches as Colt stands his ground. He has to turn back, grabbing the man roughly and turning them so the majority of the flying offence breaks upon himself. Shielding the young recruit from as much damage as he could. Stones dent into his armour, some pelting into his skin hard enough to bruise. Andrastopher wastes no time in turning to face the Pride once more, stepping from Colt who draws another arrow, copying the Warden Commander’s motions.

Lei seems to take control of the other three warriors, each of them only attacking when the demon hasn’t got any focus on them. He calls out commands, trying his best to orchestrate a group of fighters he’s never fought beside before in his life. They have to roll away from falling ice debris, Kina throws the shards quickly, trying to get purchase on the Pride.

“It won’t freeze, Kina.” Andrastopher yells, watching the panic bloom on the mage’s face when her spells fall from the demon’s hide. It brings the attention of the warriors, one of which begins to step backwards towards her. She was defenceless on her own, and she was struggling against the beast.

“What do I do?” She shouts, flinching away in fear when the Pride summons electricity to spark at the ground around her. Lawrence steps in front to defend, shield raised and tilted to deflect the magic. Templar training, he had recognised the shield work when he had first seen him fight; Lawrence was one of those who were imprisoned for assisting the mage rebellion in Redcliffe.

“Try fire.” Lawrence says with a guiding kindness, pushing them both a few steps away from the Pride, a safer distance to cast from. Kina follows him diligently, summoning flames in her hands to throw at the towering demon. It roars as it begins to burn, summoning more lightning in it’s palms. Electric claws begin to scrabble at the dancing warriors, and they flee from the range the demon has obtained. Quincy and Dian rush in from the shadows, slipping between the pillars of smoke and crashing lightning. The climb the beast’s hide, daggers finding purchase in the melting skin.

It’s a risky move, and the Pride knows it’s beginning to lose this battle. Flailing it tries to grab for the two rogues, they keep flat against him, iron grips and slight movements to stay away from the claws. The Pride roars, it’s agony evident in it’s voice, and the magic it emits begins to fall wildly around him. Uncontrolled magic and uncontrolled lightning begins the crash down about them.

Quincy is thrown off, her daggers still embedded in the demon’s back. She yells as she lands, clutching her elbow and trying to push herself away. Dian is the first to get to her, jumping from the Pride and pulling the injured woman away. A flash of lightning from the demon rings out in front of Colt, and the young man staggers back, loosing his arrow blindly. Andrastopher shoves the stumbling man quickly, his boot digging into his side to save him from the second arc of magic that darts towards them. He doesn’t see where the stray arrow goes, but it’s not long until he finds it, embedded into Lawrence’s armour.

Things were going wrong, and Andrastopher can feel the tide beginning to turn. But the Pride is dying, and the group only needs to hold out for a minute or two longer. It’s good practice for them, but it is not practice the group was prepared for. He has to get to Lawrence, and quickly, the arrow has pierced his breastplate and he might die without the Warden’s promise he deserves. Quincy’s wounds don’t need such immediate attention, and she is smiling as she lies in Dian’s lap, grinning with their impending victory.

Lawrence does himself well as he doesn’t scream, instead he staggers towards Kina, and she pulls him from the fight quickly. She hurtles more fire towards the Pride, consuming it further within the flames. The Warriors have to step back, sweating heavily from the heat of the towering inferno, wary of it’s flailing arms as it collapses to the ground. It melts away enough of the thickened hide for arrows to take purchase in it’s head, and Andrastopher fires quickly, taking arrows from Colt’s quiver until it lays dead upon the ground.

“Make sure it’s dead, pull out all the arrows and Quincy’s daggers.” Andrastopher says, striding passed the group and the burning carcass.

“Ser.” Annelise grins, arms slung around both Xanthe and Lei’s shoulders. They’ve reason to celebrate, but he hasn’t, not yet. Xanthe takes the head of the demon with her Woeful Dirge; a heavy greatsword that was hard enough to lift, let alone swing in powerful arcs. The flames, no longer fuelled by magic, are smothered by the rain, and they salvage what arrows they can.

Andrastopher finds Kina gently prying the armour from a paling Lawrence. She hasn’t removed the arrow, but she has done her best to staunch the blood, and to give easier access to whoever would heal him. His shoulder plates and gauntlets are lain out beside him, and she grips his hand tightly and smooths back the hair that had plastered to his forehead.

“Lawrence.” Andrastopher lays down his bow beside him, kneeling in the dirt the examine what little he can see of the wound. He begins to unlace the straps which hold the breastplate together, careful not to jar the injury too much. It would be quicker to cut through them, but he would then be without vital armour. As useless as it had been, it would protect him in a skirmish. He checks his hands for injuries, wary of his own blood infecting the recruit.

“Ser.” He laughs softly, almost in self-pity. He knows the arrow in his chest had come from one of them, and he knew the Warden Commander had blue feathered arrows. Lawrence can’t blame Colt, he doesn’t even feel resentment, he simply feels quite stupid. He was trained to deal with these sorts of things, the others in his group were not; and he was the only one who had fallen.

“Has the arrow gone through?” He carefully sits him up, holding his armour in place before Lawrence can do so himself. The templar winces at the action, and Kina has to look away.

“Yes,” Kina says and pauses a moment, her robes marred with dirt, rain and Lawrence’s blood, “Ser, I don’t know what to do.” She whispers it to him, as if she was hoping that Lawrence might not hear them. Kina was afraid. She hadn’t ever been called upon before like this. It had always been the more senior enchanters who would fix such aggressive wounds, and she knew she was the only one here. Lawrence’s life would be in her hands, and she doesn’t know whether she can save him.

Andrastopher stares at her for only a second, she was a circle mage. He had thought she might have had some combat experience with the rife that had smattered Ferelden, but perhaps not. The image of a pyre comes to mind, but he squashes it quickly. Andrastopher had eight recruits under his guidance, and he would have eight recruits at the Joining.

“Do you know any healing spells?” It barely comes as a question, as if she hadn’t a choice to say no. Andrastopher’s voice doesn’t waver, he knows that this is Kina’s testing moment, her own personal Joining ritual. She would either fail and carry Lawrence’s death on her hands for the rest of her life, or she would succeed, and with it bring a confidence she hadn’t contained before.

“Yes but-”

“When I pull the arrow out, I want you to pour everything you have into fixing the wound.” He interrupts her reasoning, there’s little time to reassure her or to hear her excuses. At the moment he will take anything available, Lawrence won’t survive without magic. They have no other healers. “Bite on this.” He removes the belt from his waist and shoves his empty leather dagger sheath into Lawrence’s mouth. The templar screams as Colt’s arrow is pulled through, and to her credit Kina doesn’t falter.

The tavern was half full of dwindling customers, all enjoying the warmth away from the barely there bits of snowfall. Neither man had gotten anything done so far today, and neither of them truly cared. No One had no prior arrangements to keep to, apart from what the Warden Commander wanted him to do, but that was secondary to the man he sat with now. Thom on the other hand, should probably be training or working with the woodcutters to help keep up with the demand for firewood.

“Anything going today?” No One says after their meal is place down in front of them. It had been too late for first meal, and so they got whatever had been left from the second meal of the day. He pulls out his iron teeth, scratching at some of the blood that had dried on them with the tip of his thumbnail. The action doesn’t cause anything of an upset for him as it had done before. People might still glance at him oddly for them, but he didn’t mind, so long as it was only a glance and nothing more.

“I thought you had something to do.” Thom sniffs, his cold still unshaken. The knowledge of Caldwell’s clan had begun to play on his mind. He knew what it felt like to go without family. When he had taken Blackwall’s name, he had forsaken everything that was Thom Rainier. He had only managed to write to his family a few months ago, firstly with an apology, and then something of an update. They had still been alive, though he had feared they may have passed without him knowing. But Caldwell, he held out hope for his family, and they were dead.

“I have some _one_ to do.” He presses his foot into Thom’s groin under the table, grinning through his meal. The day had been incredible so far, and returning to Thom’s bed wasn’t something that would spoil it.

“As compelling as that sounds,” He says, biting into his tongue and grabbing No One’s ankle. “No One, you really ought to tell him. The longer you wait, the worse it’ll be.”

“I can’t tell him, Thom. I don’t know everything about what happened and he’ll want to know.” He pulls his foot back and jabs at his food. Thom stops him from grabbing at his ale with a gentle palm, and No One leans back in his chair for a moment protesting by moving away from the other man. Thom wanted him to face this sober, which added to the guilted weight in his chest. He thinks of his next words. Leaning forward and quieting his voice, he speaks in a hushed tone, quickly in fear of someone listening. “What if someone survived? And he doesn’t look for them because _I_ told him they were all dead?”

“You know that the Warden Commander led an assault against them.” Thom points out. Even if he couldn’t tell him that his clan was dead, he could at least inform him they had suffered an attack at the hands of Andrastopher Cousland. He had given some thought as to what impact this would have on them both. Would the young scout attempt to take his life, would he die as a result, would he take his own life? So many questions had sprung from this one conversation he had yesterday. Yet all he could decide was that Caldwell deserved to know, whatever outcome it may have.

“With werewolves, as if they had any chance.” No One huffs, he pushes his food away from him, no longer desiring to eat. It was nug meat, he could smell it under the gravy. The meal reminded him of sick guts and liquid shits, too often he gorged on the little rat things as a wolf. “They were probably butchered.”

“A we have one in Skyhold.” He offers, pushing No One’s plate back towards him.

“What?”

“A werewolf, Twyla told me she thought it was the Dread Wolf, or something under Corypheus’ command, or both.” Thom shrugs at the memory, few people knew exactly what to believe nowadays. But whatever it was, it was evil. “Maybe Caldwell would feel something by killing it, revenge for his family.”

“You really think that wolf could have been there all those years ago?” No One says, reaching for his ale. The thought had fully come to occupy his mind this morning, something he hadn’t been able to shake despite how he spent the hours with Thom. It all became all the more real when it fell from Thom’s lips. The other man didn’t know what he had prompted, nor did he know of the calamity that could be caused by his answer.

“It’s a possibility.” He says, tipping his tankard towards the other man before taking a drink. “Few survived the blight, and the ones who did were culled afterward.”

“You seem to know an awful lot.” He hates how it sounds so aggressive, so insinuating, so blameworthy. It wasn’t as if Thom had gotten him into this whole mess, and he hadn’t caused any harm to Caldwell. But his words just built a fear in him, and he fights against it, willing himself not to flee.

“I read up on it.” He says, breathing with laughter, feeling accused of something. “They tried to integrate into society, people were too frightened of them, so eventually they left and went back to the woods.” There were different accounts wherever you looked, but all said the werewolves were no more.

“Your stories don’t match, Thom. Were they culled or did they pack up and leave without a fight?” He almost snaps at him; Thom who had no blame and no part in any of this. No One doesn’t even know why he’s fighting so hard for the blasted things, it wouldn’t do him any favours in the long run, and he held no fondness for them. He even hated himself when he turned so bestial.

Yet there’s a small reminder in Thom’s words. Culled. No One knew some werewolves would have been turned from humans, elves, dwarves, their lives ended with nobody wiser. It makes him wonder if he could have been one of them, and why he came back from it when there’s no record of anyone else doing the same. He doesn’t know who saved him, nor why they did so. Guilt is a steady weight in his gut, they could have chosen anyone, someone far better than himself.

“Are you alright?” Thom stops eating for a moment, his eyebrows pinched together with concern. He reaches over, his fingers gently gracing the other man’s knuckles.

“People are shit, Thom.” No One scrubs his face with both hands, grumbling and leaning back with a sigh. “People are just shit.” They’re the only words he can offer, they’re the only words that ring true.

“Makes you wonder how we ever learnt to wipe our arses with all the wars we’ve started.” He laughs, coughing awkwardly when No One doesn’t join him. The man would usually have a witty remark, debauched or otherwise, but he had nothing but a growing discomfort.

Finding a place to camp for the night hadn’t been too hard of an issue to overcome. They had ridden slowly in lieu of Lawrence’s injuries, but had still made a few steady hours of distance. A small clearing was empty, and Andrastopher circled the area to make sure they were alone. Woe be it for them to be attacked when they were as tired as they are.

Each tent was large enough for three people to sleep inside comfortably. Andrastopher let them choose their own sleeping companions, but told Lawrence he would be staying in his tent so he could check on him through the night. He asks Lei to sleep with him as well, and the boy doesn’t have any reason to say no. Kina offers to stay with Quincy, following in Andrastopher’s stead, so that she was available for her injured arm. It had been awkwardly twisted when she was thrown from the Pride, but there were no breaks nor fractures.

The group of recruits settle themselves as they put up their tents, and the Warden Commander leaves them to it. Deciding that he would fetch wood for the night, he could do with the walk to settle his mind. The journey began to remind him of travelling through Ferelden during the blight, and that brought fonder memories with it. Mostly of Zevran. Andrastopher hadn’t seen the man in what must have been almost half a year. The thought hits him harder than he had prepared for, and he takes a moment to himself, to sit on a twisted stump and to simply think.

He pulls out the necklace that hides beneath his clothes, a golden chain, upon it rest several rings. Each one stands as a memory for him. His parents’ betrothal rings were on there, he had given Fergus their wedding rings, and he remembers how his father’s hands shook when he pulled them off, passing them to what he thought was his only living son. _Take these, Pup_. Andrastopher huffs at the nickname that hadn’t ever gone away.

He wonders how many of these recruits had something similar, none of them were noble, not as he was. Ser Lawrence Auffrye was in fact a distant relative of his, whether the man knew or not wasn’t something Andrastopher had figured out yet. People had varying opinions on whether they wanted to be related to him or not after everything that had happened. He preferred them not to, he had heard of the troubles Goddard had been through with distant family, and he was glad that he had killed that weed before it had grown.

Dry wood is hard to find with the rain that had passed through, so he ends up breaking low branches from trees, and whittling enough away to see if they’re still dry inside. He has a steady bundle growing, tied with rope to keep them tighter together. There’s a lack of animal life in the woods around them, but a few rabbits present themselves as he waits. It won’t be much, but it can be with breads and cheeses added.

The recruits seem relieved to see him back, a murmur of recognition passes through them. They’re happier for the wood he brings, and the few dead rabbits he has tied and slung over his shoulder. It’s with an almost embarrassing acknowledgement that he realises why they’re acting the way they are; the Warden Commander hadn’t told them where he had gone.

The fire is started cleanly, bolstered with the shafts of arrows that were too damaged to use again. Andrastopher gathers the heads in a small satchel, splitting them between his own and Colt’s. But the young man isn’t with the main group.

“Where is Colt?” His words break through the conversation cleanly. Some of them glance around, evident enough that they hadn’t seen him slip away.

“He started his own fire, down that way, Ser.” Dian says, pointing to a barely visible trail of smoke.

“Why?” Andrastopher stares at Dian for an answer, but she is interrupted even at a loss of words. They all knew what had happened. If they didn’t see it when they fought the Pride, it would have been common gossip by the time they had arrived at camp.

“Because he shot Lawrence, that’s _why_.” Annelise grunts, “Idiot shouldn’t use a bow if he can’t aim.”

“And were you there to defend him during that fight?” He asks, turning to face the ex-bandit.

“What?”

“We had four warriors, Lawrence was the only one who went to defend one of our own. Colt is your Warden brother, perhaps if you had thought more of group survivability and not your own glory we wouldn’t have had this outcome.”

“I did my part.” She snaps, offended at the notion that she hadn’t worked as hard as everyone else.

“Not well enough.” He stands to his full height, stepping closer and crowding the woman. It’s an intimidating sight to see for all of them. Illuminated only by fire and surrounded by shadows of his frame, like Terrors that dance upon the trees. “Speak to me with respect, Annelise, lest we all regret your actions next time.” The threat is unclear, but they all recognise that it is there. Andrastopher was not here to act as a babysitter for these recruits, and he would not stand for them as they acted out of place. They might travel together, and work together, but all above he was their Warden Commander; the highest ranking Grey Warden in Ferelden.

“Ser.” She huffs, pushing out her lower jaw, this time most definitely in protest. Silence settles in the group until Andrastopher leaves, even then the only words are those bidding a goodnight.

He knew of how Annelise was betrayed by her men, she wouldn’t see Lawrence’s injury as anything else. Dissent in his group was something he wouldn’t abide by. Tomorrow, he decides, he will have Kina ride alongside him, and place Colt and Annelise side by side. They would work things out, or there would be consequences.

Colt is miserable when he turns to look at the approaching footsteps squelching in the mud. No doubt the Warden Commander is here to tell him to leave, that he doesn’t want a misfiring solider in his ranks. He sniffs as tears begin to form in his eyes; useless he was. It’s impossible to look him in the eye, even as he takes a seat beside him.

The Warden Commander gives him time to start a conversation, to drown out his repetitive sniffles and heavy swallows. But he can’t find the words. He had been annoying the man all day, and he had been cowardly during that fight. The Pride’s lightning had blinded him, all he can remember was being tossed to one side and thinking his life was going to end. He had staggered back to the group and lingered on the outskirts in the aftermath.

“I had a lyrium vial broken over my head.” Andrastopher says, offering a small wrap of food, some bread and strips of rabbit meat. The young man isn’t going to speak to him, no doubt he feels as if he’s going to be scolded by a tutor or something of the sort.

“What?” Colt sniffs, prodding at the small fire, watching sparks leap out in protest. He throws the twig in, reaching to pick at the food. He feels silly, moping and eating, but he’s hungry, and the meat had smelt nice cooking over there. There was no courage left in him to try and get some from the group, he would go hungry for the night if it meant not facing their judging stares.

“The scars, you asked earlier” He points to his own face, the right half smattered with bubbled lines, “I wanted to kill someone in the worst way possible a thousand times over, in the end we scrapped on the floor, exhausted, until I stabbed him in the neck with the shards of glass his broke upon my scalp.”

Andrastopher can remember the fight vividly, surrounded by the bodies of Howe’s men. He wouldn’t let anyone intervene, it was a duel to the death without any rules. Rendon Howe had grabbed whatever he could under the crushing weight of Andrastopher’s palms. A lyrium potion that his mage hadn’t drank, it burned into his skin, searing him with shards of glass, and blood slipping into his eyes. It was the last reprise that Rendon had been granted. Andrastopher had been half blind, but he had stabbed him in the throat, in the jaw, repeatedly piercing him with that curve of jagged glass that cut into his own palm.

He had wept after that death, sobbing as he looked upon the corpse of the man who had slaughtered his family. For a moment he doesn’t recognise it as Rendon Howe, and a fear is instilled in him that the man is still alive somewhere. Zevran had entered first, sitting beside him and saying nothing. The Antivan could see the butchery that had befallen the Arl, even if he only recognised him for the armour he wore. They shouldn’t have stayed as long as they did, it was dangerous for all of them. But Andrastopher wouldn’t move, and they all needed him.

“So?” Colt shrugs.

“We make mistakes, we falter and we fear,” he says, “being a Grey Warden means you don’t get those choices. But it also means when you do, in a rare moment forget _exactly_ who you are, that someone is there to remind you.” Colt looks at him through his spilled tears, keeping the gaze of the hooded eyes of his Warden Commander.

“He could have died.” He whispers.

“Kina saved him.” Andrastopher says, glancing over at the others who were slowly disappearing into their own tents. She had confessed that her healing spells were mostly subpar, she hadn’t ever expected to heal anything more than a burnt hand or a graze. To know her magic had pulled together a man’s insides enough for him to survive had brought tears to her eyes; she had saved a life, her magic was good. They were all retiring for the evening, all except Colt. Who’s swirling guilt would be keeping him awake for another night. “He will die someday, as will I, as will you. We can only strive to give it meaning.”

“That doesn’t make me feel any better.” He turns away but cannot hide the pinch in his brows.

“Because that wasn’t my intention. I do not coddle my soldiers, you are a Grey Warden Recruit, there is care and comfort to be found when you need it but right now you don’t.” He stands and looks down upon Colt, “you’re sulking because you think you made a mistake.” Andrastopher drops the arrow he had pulled from Lawrence into Colt’s lap and begins to leave.

“I did make a mistake, I shot that other guy, Ser.” Colt stands looking evermore miserable, and with the barest hints of relief upon his face. Andrastopher merely nods, leaving the younger man with acceptance of his misstep, something that would help him get over what had happened this day.

Oscar remains awake, standing when the Warden Commander approaches him. He is waved off with a loose wrist and a tired expression, the other man doesn’t stop until he is sat upon his own bedroll. Lei is already sleeping, and Lawrence occupies the third bedroll in their shared tent. The templar was still pale, but he had taken potions and his wounds were dressed with healing poultices. Tomorrow he would awaken feeling sore, yet very much alive.


	42. A Bloody Drakonsday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: This chapter refers to ableism and possibly ableist language, of a character who is paralysed from the waist down.

Moondays were reserved for the trials and judgements of those in Skyhold’s cells. Which had led to the term _A Bloody Drakonsday_ , should there be an execution. A rare enough event in Skyhold, but it had happened a few times. The Inquisitor was known to be merciful in his judgements, time taken away was better than a sacrificed limb or the death of the criminal. He truly believed in repentance, and the ability for those who had made mistakes to change their ways.

But executions were a thrilling event, it was one of the things that carried life back to normal. They brought back a routine from before the sky was torn open, and it was a sight to see the Herald of Andraste physically take evil from the world. A single swing, swift and weighted with justice as much as mercy. There was an official headsman in Skyhold, his name was Grudge, and he chopped wood more often than heads these days.

Goddard had learnt how to execute a man with a sole blow of his sword from his father. Public executions were something of an arousing time for Aaric; he revelled in blood spilt upon the gallows, expecting Goddard to be the same. He hadn’t enjoyed those times, when they rode into the centre of the nearest towns just to watch the beheadings. Perhaps that is why he held judgements on Moonday, because the executions of his youth were always on a Drakonsday. It was the routine from his time as a young man that he had never escaped.

Thom watched from the crowds, sitting at the far table Varric occupied almost every day, with the dwarf writing beside him. He seemed mostly bored with the messy scratchings on the paper, and had large lines of ink drawn through most of it. Writing must have been harder than Thom had originally thought, but it wasn’t as if he had ever read that much in his life either. Only that of what he found in public privies or in a sleeping lover’s room, and in the latter, there was usually something better to occupy his time. Odd how his room had now become a makeshift library for No One.

Varric huffs and mumbles through parts, something about the Knight-Captain trying to work their way through the current dilemma, and then trying to remove that same dilemma because there’s something far better in the corner of his mind. He’s not the best company if Thom was looking for a conversation, but he only wanted to watch the judgements through the crowd. It would fall silent when the court spoke, and after the punishment was decided whispers and mutterings would spread like the blight between the people. Thom tried to listen in, but the sounds would get muddled to the point where he was considering that one of Varric’s characters was on trial.

He wanted to see the judgement of Mistress Poulin, Michel’s words still sat in his mind. Rumours had spread from the Emprise du Lion, that the small village of Sahrnia was getting back on her feet. Trade was slow, but with Inquisition protection it was happening steadily. Emperor Gaspard had his own workers there, and he made sure they, and the villagers, were well taken care of. It was a joint effort in the village, despite the original intentions of either party, and it was beginning to bloom after such a turbulent time. It was a place for Thedas to look to, somewhere that had suffered yet had still began to rise from it’s own ashes.

“How’s No One?” Varric asks, jabbing Thom in the arm. The action pulls him away from the current trial, some mages had been caught practicing some more dangerous forms of magic, Thom had already missed half of it. He frowns at him, moustache twitching with the smile that pulls at his lips. Varric’s own grin grows, an expression like that only tells half the story that he wants to know. But Thom remains entirely tight lipped about it. “Oh, come on, Hero, I need inspiration for this book, Cassandra reads them faster than I can write them.” He pushes the sheets away from him, he’ll burn them later, there wasn’t anything on them worth keeping.

“Writing them just for the Lady Seeker?” He says, raising a brow at Varric’s confession. They were getting on better as of late, even if Cassandra couldn’t stand the sight of him, at least she was spending more time with Varric. As rocky as their relationship was, there was still room for some amicability. In a few years’ time she might even forgive Thom of his sins. An unlikely thing to happen, since she had only spoken to him when it was absolutely necessary, counting those only brought Thom to a handful.

“Don’t try and change the subject.” He chides.

“We’re fine.” Thom says, not willing to divulge anything else. This morning had been full of gentler touches, waking up to see the man after a calmer night’s rest was a kind thing. He had mouthed down his back, tracing the notches in his spine with wet kisses, and pressed his lips against the cheeks of his arse. It hadn’t gone any further. Thom’s fingers had glanced the scars on his thigh, and the man had flinched enough to nearly kick him clean in the groin.

The night terrors that No One had, he didn’t suffer them every night, but they happened every few days. It was something of a question for Thom. He had seen the horrors of war, most everyone had with the state of Thedas today, and he had seen how it could affect men. He knows, without question, that No One had suffered something awful. But he hasn’t yet been able to ask what. Eighteen years running for his life, living in fear. Thom doubted there was only that one thing to plague the man. But those scars, it was easy to see they were something of a problem. To Thom they were only scars, nothing else, but he didn’t have the memories that No One had, and he hadn’t suffered the pain of whatever had caused them.

“Fine? Just _fine_?” Varric snorts, perceptive enough to figure out that information was being withheld. He needed every detail to write the Tale of the Inquisitor; a working title by all means. Granted he couldn’t imagine too many people who be interested in Thom’s love life when they were reading about the Herald of Andraste, but a romantic subplot could be a brilliant side dish. Especially when the Inquisitor himself was already married and Varric couldn’t write a thrilling romance as he had done in the Tale of the Champion.

“What do you want me to say?” He shrugs.

“I need details, Hero.” The dwarf sets aside his rough draft after writing about the possible introduction of a new romance, more of a scribble of lines and bad ideas, and pulls out a blank piece of parchment. Thom laughs at his enthusiasm. It was bad enough when he was asking whether he wanted to be grizzled or masculine. Now he wanted intimate knowledge of his pillow talk. Not that there was much to say in the department. Neither of them had purchased any oil yet, and No One had a way of simply taking control of things. Thom wasn’t complaining, the blonde was intuitive with his mouth.

There had been talk of putting his mouth on Thom’s arse, and promises that it would be the best eating out that he had ever had. He can say, though not too loudly, he’s had a few tongues there already. Although he’d much rather speak of his own tongue going to such places, and of the people who have sat on his face over the years. The thought of No One sitting on his face, it brings a warmth to his spine.

“I’m not giving you details, Varric.”

“What about those teeth of his, I remember Rosa couldn’t stop talking about them.” Varric says, clearing his throat a presenting a higher pitched voice and gesturing grandly with his hands. “ _Oh but they’re so shiny, and can you imagine how they would feel, oh, I don’t think I’ve ever met a man so-_ ”

“He takes them out.” Thom laughs.

“Go on.” He grins, setting his ink ready and poising to begin writing. Thom can only roll his eyes, he’d said too much already.

“Says having lyrium on your bits isn’t as nice as it sounds.” He shrugs, glancing down at his own groin to emphasize his meaning. Thom had laughed and winced through the conversation he and No One had about it, said it was like liquid fire in his cock, and not in the kind of pleasurable pain way. Apparently, the only thing to help with the pain was to dip his bits in a cup of milk, even then that barely glanced the feeling.

It took a while before Thom asked why No One had lyrium on his own cock, when they were talking about his own iron teeth. He wasn’t that flexible, surely. That led to one story about an adventurous mage who wanted to try something different, and then another when someone else had suggested it later. He moaned that someone must have been telling rumours about the pleasure of lyrium, and that it was doing all harm and no good.

“That doesn’t sound nice at all.” Varric frowns, stopping midway to making notes. He knew some dwarves into some strange things, but it was rare they used the lyrium they smuggled. For it’s a poor smuggler who indulges in his own stock. He had heard of someone sniffing the dust off of certain body parts, but he hadn’t tried it himself. Too risky, even before Kirkwall. 

“Exactly.” He says with raised brows. “What happened to the mages?” The crowds begin to mumble out their own opinions, and Thom can’t figure out exactly what Goddard had ordered to be done. Not an execution, so their crimes couldn’t be so bad.

“Have you ever considered a career in changing the subject?” Varric laughs, leaning back and hardly bothering to try and get a view. Orlesian nobles would only move if you stepped on their dresses, even then they would most likely faint and take up more space.

“I did that a lot before.” He points out, brows falling as he glances back at the dwarf.

“Oh, yes. Forget I said anything.” He mumbles, keeping his voice low when the next prisoner is called out. Thom stands, half on the bench to get a better view. An older woman is brought out in chains, and it takes a moment for Thom to recognise her without her golden headdress; Mistress Poulin, finally. Her hair had grown since he had last seen her, it was something of an inch-long fuzz that covered her scalp, and she looked tired. Thom had to wonder whether they’ve looked after her, or whether time in the cells was that draining.

His own few days in there hadn’t been so awful. The worst thing about it was the silence, and the guilt that had crept into every inch of his being. He knew the Inquisitor had pulled favours to have him transported, to carry the trial and the sentence himself. But his mind had flickered back to No One even then, assuming him dead; for the first time, he thinks with mirth.

The dwarf waves him off as he slips through the edges of the crowd, getting close enough to listen in. He had been waiting for a few hours for this to particular trial to come about and Varric wasn’t about to tell him to stay. He wanted to investigate the use of lyrium in more personal encounters, and wonders whether he could work that into his tales.

Lady Josephine begins the court, speaking clearly so that all may hear her. She remains entirely neutral, but still she reminds Goddard of exactly who Mistress Poulin had sold the mine to, as if he didn’t bear a shattered arm after fighting through them. Despite the sling he still wore, he looked no less intimidating upon his golden throne, bearing the crown of the Inquisition and the Herald’s decorative blade across his lap.

Goddard wore a specific outfit for casting judgements. It was imperative that he looked his best; he didn’t want to belittle his actions nor insult those he judged with sloppy taste. Dressed in whites and golds recommended by Madame Vivienne, it was obvious that he tried to emanate the modern day ideal of Andraste, her herald was there to do her bidding, and his outfit was worth as much as his words. A cape had been draped over one shoulder, falling across the sling. It was an obvious why they had done it, though the effect had worked nicely.

 Thom listens carefully, frowning when Goddard speaks of good intentions not negating bad actions. He knows he won’t let Mistress Poulin off lightly, he had known that back in Sahrnia, the Inquisitor had been furious at her actions. She believed that she had saved some by selling the rest of them, but who was she to decide whose life had more value. He spoke of the choice she had taken from those people, perhaps she had saved some, but they had no freedom in her actions.

Goddard ponders for a moment, readjusting how he sits, and he holds up his hand for silence when Mistress Poulin tries to plead her case once more. It’s a hard decision. That much is evident based on the way he thinks through his choices. He gestures Josephine closer, they whisper for a moment, and the room falls just that bit quieter in an attempt to hear what they say. Lady Josephine steps back, and nods to the Herald before he begins to relay his judgement.

“As a noble of the Free Marches, I have a right to goods won in battle against forces hostile to a sovereign crown. I hereby invoke our treaty with the Empire of Orlais and claim your land and earnings for house Trevelyan.” Goddard speaks clearly, even over the gasps that break through the crowd. “My youngest brother, Lord Milward Remington Trevelyan and his wife Lady Lorene Whitley Trevelyan, formerly Lady Lorene Whitley Claysword, will be in charge of this land under my order.”

Thom feels his gut sink; Michel had been correct. This wasn’t the right thing to do, to take advantage of the village that had been wrought with ruin and chaos for this past year. He wants to speak out, to call Goddard a bastard or a cunt or a two-faced lying prick or _something_. But when he looks around all he can see are the impressed faces of nobles around him, a swift and brilliant move in the grand game, even if Orlais had lost land to the Free Marches. Maker, but it makes him feel sick.

“By the Maker, I’ve never heard of such a treaty.” Mistress Poulin protests, stepping forward before the guards beside her pull her back.

“I have not finished, Mistress Poulin.” Goddard adds, hushing the crowd with a raised hand. She glances around with an evident nervousness, was it not enough that he took her land but now he must cast another punishment on her. What else was there to take after this? After everything she had done for those townspeople, to protect them, and now she stood in irons.

“I…” Her words fail her, and her confusion seems to echo in the expressions of the crowd behind her.

“The Red Templars you aided are sworn enemies of the Empire of Orlais, nobody in the royal court contests this or comes to your defence in this trying time, and the punishment for such treason is death. I have written to Emperor Gaspard de Chalons on such matters, and his response has been swift, as will be your execution.” He says it with a strength in his words, even as he sees the tears well in Mistress Poulin’s eyes. “Take comfort in your last night knowing that every ill-gotten coin you earned will be used to rebuild the town and the lives you destroyed. You will be executed on the morrow.”

“No, please, anything but this, I beg you, no.” She wails fighting uselessly against the guards who pull her away. It hard to watch, and so Thom doesn’t. Instead he glares at the Inquisitor and they only lock eyes when Mistress Poulin is out of sight, he could not glance away for fear of showing guilt in his actions. It is held just for a second before Goddard breaks it, unflinching. He nods to Josephine for the next prisoner to come forth, ignoring the excited whispers of the upcoming bloody Drakonsday.

No One had suffered another nightmare the night before last. That Revenant still kept close to him, chasing him through the alienage streets, muttering Dalish words in his lungs. He had tried to escape, climbing fences and walls laced with vines, finding nothing but a maze of streets that never seemed to end. Looking to the distance he could see the imperial palace of Orlais, shining brightly and golden, with towers and spires adorned with banners and flags, he couldn’t remember if that had always been present in his dream. If it had; he didn’t know why.

Perhaps it was to remind him of his own guilt, the life that he had left behind. It wasn’t so close in the waking world. It’s as if the towering building had moved nearer to him instead. No One had been trapped in this alienage ever since Ser Ancel had done something to him. The thought of something in the palace coming to rescue him brings a pitiful laugh to his lips, exhausted from fleeing, and giving in to the weighted claws of that damned demon.

Despite how the Revenant seemed to capture him every time he slept, the thing hadn’t tried to possess him. As far as No One could tell, he hadn’t exactly received a circle’s training on this sort of thing. His knowledge came only from the wealth of books he now had access to; whether they had been a gift or a distraction wasn’t yet decided upon. The thought of trying to slay the demon had come to mind a few times, but he always seemed to forget as he slept; only remembering when he awoke after his night terror.

One other thing he had forgotten, was where exactly he had left the Mirtha’ghila tome. No One had looked for it, even amongst the messy piles of books in Thom’s room. Checking every title with precision before casting them away. He couldn’t find it upon the ramparts either, and it hadn’t been returned to the hidden library. Which could only mean that someone else had found it first. What they intended to do with it however, was something No One assumed he wouldn’t ever be able to find out. Not without highlighting that he had been the one to take it from the library that wasn’t meant to be accessed by the general public in the first place. He wasn’t even a member of the Inquisition, so whether he should be taking books from the normal library could also be called into question.

He vows to himself, the next time he slept, he would climb those walls. Traversing them until he could find an exit to the labyrinth he was stuck in. Of course, the question of whether or not he would remember eluded him entirely.

There was little limitation to what magic could do, and he didn’t believe that the Revenant couldn’t be the one to remove the thought of slaying it from his mind. Which would mean that he was partially possessed, he thinks, No One doesn’t even know if that’s something plausible or even possible. He could remember everything else, memories of his family, memories of Thom, memories of that damned werewolf. It was hard to decide whether it was the self-preservation of the demon or a deep-rooted fear in himself should he fail.

But the thought of tackling another dream, it drains him of what little optimism he retains. It would be a damned sight easier just to ignore the Revenant, and the golden imperial palace. To make and drink that bloody recipe that Cousland had given him. Which is what had brought him here, to the Warden Commander’s room, asking for help, yet again, with a little scrap of vellum in hand. No One hadn’t looked at it yet. As if that sole action would seal his fate and he would simply have to create the thing. If he even had the skill to do such, he wasn’t much of a potion maker, and he couldn’t pay someone to do it for him either.

The Warden Commander hadn’t yet arrived, which was strange enough in itself. He hadn’t exactly hidden himself; sat in the corner room with the almost full-length windows and the drapes pulls back. Cousland should have seen him by now and should have been affronted at having him alone in his room. But, the lack of protest presented him with the opportunity to have a peak into the man’s things, uncaring whether he got caught by the man or not. No One hadn’t found anything remotely interesting after the first few minutes, and he had soon returned to fiddling with the folded recipe.

He’d have thought the Warden Commander would have something fascinating in here at the very least. Maybe a smutty book, or one of those false cocks, love letters, No One would have taken anything at this point. Each second brought him another ounce of boredom.

“He’s not here.” Bull says, leaning around the doorframe and ducking underneath. No One hums his question, an eyebrow raised at the intrusion. “Cousland, he left a few days ago.” Bull had seen No One enter the tavern a while ago and had heard him shuffling and muttering to himself in the Warden Commander’s room. It would make searching through his things easier if he could blame someone else for the mess. He thought if he left the man to his actions then he might catch a glimpse of what he was searching for. But No One had given up and hadn’t shifted since.

He had spent a while listening to the blonde, trying to figure out what he was doing in there. Surely, he would have known, with the few times he had seen them together, that he had left. The foursome had worried Bull; Andrastopher, Thom, Lei, and No One, it was too many unknown quantities around a friend, and a high-ranking member of the Inquisition. That was something he had prepared himself for, he knew No One and Thom were getting somewhere together, and he knew that far before either man had.

Bull had made the attempt all those months ago to warn Thom away from him. But it had been too late, whatever Thom had decided when they first met it remained solid until this day. He had a loyalty to the nameless man, the nobody with a rich hidden history. It was something of a relief to see the loyalty had become a two-way thing, No One was smitten, and it was rare to see them together without a smile between them.

The man in front of him was an assassin, but he wasn’t Viddathari. Bull knew enough about him to strike that option from the list. Which meant there was another reason No One and Andrastopher spent so much time together, something which yet remained hidden from him. He had certain pieces of a puzzle already, but he didn’t know what the final image would be.

“Seriously? I’ve been waiting for an hour.” No One huffs. He threads a hand through his hair, leaning his elbow on the windowsill and almost glaring at those who wandered the courtyards. From the angle, Bull can see the tell-tale marks of an over-excited and very much bearded lover across his neck. Little blotches of discoloured skin, and the barest hints of a rash forming from the assault of wiry chin hairs.

Bull contains the smile at the image. Thom Rainier was a bit of a dark horse, but he had gathered that from the beginning. A man like him, who spoke often of bawdy houses though only in the company of men; for he didn’t want to offend the dainty ears of women. He’d always denied an attraction to men before, even as Bull had flirted with him. But he had known, even if he hadn’t figured out the Blackwall angle, Thom had protested just a bit too much to certain things.

“Hah, bad luck, big guy.” He laughs, taking a few steps inside and sitting on the Warden Commander’s bed. It was a small enough room that he wondered how the man fit in with three mabaris. “That a letter for him?” A grey finger points to the folded vellum, perhaps No One had been searching for a place to hide it for when the Warden Commander came back.

“No. It’s a recipe he gave me,” No One waves the thing uselessly, “figured I’d just ask him to brew the thing.”

“What’s in it?” He asks nonchalantly. No One wonders whether to simply shrug the question off, he doesn’t know what’s in it because he hasn’t had the courage to read it yet. But there’s something that seems to compel him to look at those words, the list of ingredients and that flask diagram. Fumes, he remembers, the potion has potent fumes. That could mean many things, but he had a feeling that it wasn’t such a brilliant thing for a brew to have.

No One sniffs for a moment, chewing his tongue before pulling the vellum open. Cousland’s handwriting is neat, expected from a highborn nobleman like himself, and so are the lines of his sketch. An artist of some talent evidently enough. He scans the words quickly, not really taking them in but understanding most of them were plant matter. Nothing too outrageous like dragon’s blood or bogfisher’s teeth.

“Blood Lotus, Embrium, Dragonthorn leaves, Ghoul’s Beard, Bitter Elfroot, Spindleweed.” He reads them out under Bull’s gaze, ignoring he quantities or how long they’re supposed to be brewed for. To create the potion took a fortnight at the least, and that’s without mistakes of overboiling or using leaves that were too dry. Magic could speed the process up, but he wasn’t a mage, nor knew of one to ask. “Some other shit, I can’t get any of this.” He rubs at the stubble on his chin, scratching at it with frustration. No One should have expected Cousland to give him a list of expensive herbs that a meagre man like him couldn’t simply buy from any merchant in the market. Bloody ponce, he thought, probably has a personal alchemist who makes this cocktail for him.

“You plan on poisoning someone, big guy?” Bull asks, his brow raised. No kind of assassin would willingly give away the poison recipe he intended to use, it made no sense for either man to have such a thing. But Dragonthorn leaves, Bitter Elfroot, these were healing items, and to include them in a poison didn’t have much reason either. Bull needed the list, he needed to deconstruct everything on that scrap of vellum. It didn’t sound like anything Qunari, it sounded more like the Antivan Crow’s poison.

“It’s, it was for me.” No One glances at the list again; a lot of these ingredients were poisonous, even he knew that. Perhaps the Warden Commander had intended for him to lose his nightmares by entering a more permanent type of slumber.

“You poisoning yourself?” The words are soft, too soft from a man as fierce looking and as large as The Iron Bull. The concern is there, evident in his tone and the slight narrowing of his eye. No One had been right in the first place. Cousland was using him, and instead of simply announcing his status as a chevalier deserter, he had decided to have him poison himself in some overt display of the grand game. What a cunt.

“ _Cousland’s_ trying to poison me,” He bites, shoving the letter into Bull’s chest, “here, tell him to fuck off when you next see him.” No One stands without grace, staggering from the room as he trips over the books he had left scattered about the floor. He curses under his breath, waving off Bull’s agreeing laughter, unknowing of what he had just given to him.

That bastard Cousland. He kept him on a tight enough leash watching over that bastard prince, the man had no reason to betray him like this. No One knew he shouldn’t have trusted him, they weren’t friends, they weren’t allies, they weren’t anything but victim and blackmailer. He would tell Caldwell of the slaughter of clan Maelarith by the Hero’s hands, he would tell everyone, and he would despoil that air of arrogance he has.

Yet, from across the courtyard as he leaves the tavern, he can see Thom training with another soldier. The man offers him a nod and a red-faced grin. He looked exhausted, liked he’d been pushing himself just that bit further in his training. But all No One could see were those lips smiling that had been upon his body this morning, and the very near painful injury he had caused. The other man had apologised for touching the scars, he had forgotten in the sleepy hours of the morning. The bruise would be a significant memory for both of them.

Revenge on Andrastopher would make Thom a victim as well as himself. The Inquisition would know that he knew about his chevalier deserter status, and they would punish him for it. A poison unconsumed wasn’t worth ruining his own life and Thom’s. The fight falls out of him, and he offers a wave, heading off to search the stables once more. No One needed a distraction, and the search for the Mirtha’ghila would do nicely. Perhaps he should have fucked Thom until neither of them had the energy to move instead of awkwardly laughing through the incident, he’d feel better for it.

Despite what little help the tome had been to him, he still felt it calling to him almost. As if he had missed something in his bad translation of those Dalish words. He pushes as the bundles of feed, lifting blankets, and searching through crates. No One hadn’t been in here in a while, but whoever had the tome might have. Despite his thoughts, the Mirtha’ghila tome had proved to be the most interesting read. Even if it couldn’t help him with his bestial state, perhaps it would help him with the Revenant.

No One searches for a few hours more, giving up eventually and heading back up to Thom’s room. It could still be there, he thinks, and he isn’t going up just because he saw the other man go up only a while ago, followed by maids with buckets of water. He dawdles as he walks, pulled aside by Varric as they pass in the hall. The dwarf warns him of Thom’s soured mood and asks about his teeth. No One gives him a cagey answer, weaselling out of the conversation and quickly darting up the stairs to his destination.

The latch is undone quietly, stepping inside without a sound and creeping towards the small bathing chamber. Thom’s relaxed groan echoes in the room, and he only flinches from the water when a cold chill hit his back. A smile is pulled across his lips when No One enters and sits on the edge of the tub, rolling up the hem of his breeches before sticking his bare feet into the steaming water. He wiggles his toes in the water, glad for the numbness that slips from his joints.

“You find the Warden Commander?” Thom asks, scrubbing under his nails with a small brush. He didn’t really need to, but he felt filthy after that trial, even after the hours he had sparred for. A part of him felt slightly responsible, he had stood there aside the Inquisitor when he comforted Sahrnia, and just as Michel had said; Goddard had claimed the land for himself. Rather his brother, but nobody had missed the words; _under my_ _order_ from his speech.

“He left a few days ago, undertaking the Joining with a bunch of recruits.” No One says, briefly remembering the quick conversation he and Thom had this morning. “Turns out, that the recipe was poisonous, bloody good thing I’m no alchemist, aye?” He snorts with contempt. No One was not as angry as he had been before. The thought of Thom had quelled that in him, and now it only came off as a distasteful mirth. There were different things for him to worry about, and different things for him to occupy his time with.

But there was little reaction from the other man if any at all. He sat still picking at the hard edges of his nails, worn down over time working as a carpenter, pulling the dirt from under them that was embedded thickly. They had grown longer without so much time spent in the stables, but No One liked how they felt across his skin, scratching and grappling like that. They’d leave the kind of lines he’d like upon himself. Thom’s were much better than his own short nails that he bit just that fragment too often.

“But that’s for another time, what’s bothering you?” No One asks, flicking some water at the other man with his fingertips.

“Sorry, it’s nothing.” He says, dropping the brush under the water and trying to recollect what No One had just said to him. Thom blinks a few times, staring at the man opposite him, “what was that about poison?”

“Oh no, you can’t do that. All this time you spent getting me to open up and now you’re the one who’s holding back?” He laughs, biting his tongue when Thom only offers a touch of a smile in return. The water dances around his fingertips, fleeing from the path of his digits. There was something wrong, and it brought a sorrow to No One’s chest that he wished himself rid of. “Thom, let me help with this, and shift up.” He steps out of the tub for a moment, pushing Thom forward until he can sit behind him on the edge. No One’s breeches soak up the water from Thom’s back, but he doesn’t mind. He pulls at the length of the other man’s hair, scraping it from around his neck and gently pulling his fingers through it. It’s a lot softer than he had first imagined, and it’s a relaxing thing to feel slipping through his hands.

“The,” Thom starts, his voice wavering with the soothing motions of No One’s hands. Even as he gently works through the knots with oil and a comb, making sure not to pull too hard. Oil No One had pilfered as he searched for his absent tome, passing by a maid and pinching it from her basket. He hasn’t had someone wash his hair in years, and he’s amazed at how soothing such a simple action is. “The trial this morning, of Mistress Poulin. I didn’t think the Inquisitor would do what he did.”

“Trevelyan had the right to claim a large amount of land with a flourishing mine, no man would pass up that opportunity.” No One shrugs, watching how his fingers thread throw black tresses to reveal streaks of stark grey. They almost blend in when they’re wet, but it’s a handsome feature that Thom has. He thinks momentarily about Thom with a full head of greyed hair, he’d look so awfully old. Attractive though. “A bloody Drakonsday is upon us, I’d celebrate but I don’t think that’s what you’re angling for. Pass me the soap?” He says, pointing to the small bar resting beside them. Thom reaches for it shuffling in the water until he is more comfortable and passes the small bar to him, No One lathers his hands making sure to rid himself of the oil before massaging cleaner suds into Thom’s scalp.

“Did you know about the treaty?” He asks, using the bubbles in the water to scrub at his own body. They only had one bar of soap, and he wasn’t going to stop No One doing what he was doing just so he might bathe a little better.

“I did, it’s why Orlais had a _civil_ war, and not one that all of Thedas was dragged into. Neither of them could risk inviting allies only for them to argue for their land.” He explains, dragging the soap down the length of Thom’s hair, using the excess to wash his neck and shoulders with prodding fingers. The treaty didn’t fall to taking land, no man would sign such a thing willingly, but Trevelyan and the Emperor were close enough that anyone would guess it was a gift between them. “How did you know about it? You’re not secretly a nobleman, are you?” The joke falls flat, and No One chews his inner cheek to stop him from attempting something else in its stead.

“No,” he sighs, more relaxed than irritated, “someone told me about it, when we were in Sarhnia.” His words are slow, falling in tempo as he relaxes more and more into No One’s grip.

“Who?”

“Ser Michel de Chevin.” Thom admits, wondering whether they had known each other before No One had deserted the chevaliers.

“I heard he lost his title.” No One passes the soap to Thom, tilting his head back and cupping his forehead to rinse it with a jug. The other man follows without word, closing his eyes just in case any soap goes rogue. He combs it through with his fingers repeating the action a few times until there is nothing left but water.

“Emperor Gaspard reinstated him, promoted him into his personal honour guard.” Thom says, wiping his forehead clear of droplets as he sits back up properly. He turns slightly, catching No One fumbling to keep hold of all his hair, and offers him a saddening smile. “I thought about you.”

“What, being forgiven by that old dick?” He laughs, turning Thom’s head away to brush it through again. The strands twist in his grasp, pulling and threading them absentmindedly at the thought of living as a free man. What a life that would be, a life that wasn’t his to lead.

“It could happen.” He whispers, patting No One’s foot under the water. For the lack of being able to hold his hand, he keeps the foot gently in his grip, feeling the man’s toes curl and the rolling protrusions of his knuckles. Large feet, Thom realises, they have a length to them but not a width.

“It won’t, Thom.” He says, unable to hide the smile in his tone. “But, you have my thanks, for even giving thought to such a thing.”

“Never thought the sky would open and start pissing demons, there’s a chance for everything.” He snorts. Feeling better for talking through it with No One. They hadn’t really said much, but he felt undeniably relaxed, so much so that he could have probably stayed in here for a few hours longer, wrinkled in the water with No One washing his hair. “Did you, have you just braided my hair?” He asks, reaching back to feel the curling bumps of the new style. It was incredibly neat, especially considering the braids he had seen No One wearing before always had loose bits and wayward strands.

“I,” No One pauses, looking at the Orlesian style plait he had threaded into Thom’s hair, the end held between his thumb and forefinger, pinched so it wouldn’t fall loose. He doesn’t entirely remember doing it, “I used to do this for my daughter,” he explains, finger’s glancing off the dark tresses, “I can take it out.”

“No, that’s, I just need a tie, to keep it in.” Thom slaps away No One’s fingers, turning to keep the braid from him and holding the loose end of it. Plaiting hair hadn’t really even been on Thom’s mind, his fingers were short and fat and when he tried the ends of it always ended up in tangles. Before taking Blackwall’s name his hair had always been shorn short, and the Warden himself had told him that slicking it back was the easiest thing to do with long hair. Women tended to like it too, it wasn’t too overt or in the way, but it was long enough to grip and tug at when they had certain rougher intimacies.

No One stands from the water, carefully so as not to bash Thom as he moved, and stepped away from the tub. He wipes his feet on a towel laid out beside the tub and laughs as he looks down on himself.

“Hah, talking about pissing, look at me.” He gestures to his breeches, and the bathwater that makes him look like he’s loosed his bladder inside of them. Thom laughs with warmth, grinning as No One pulls the fabric from where it has stuck to his thighs and trying to walk from the room at the same time.

Lizette had requested to see her brother this night, it seemed he was rarely able to make time for her and she wouldn’t be ignored. Hollis had told her of the trial this morning, she had been pampered by her handmaids, bathing an hour and having oils rubbed into her skin. He had been outraged by the decision and had waddled as quickly as he could to inform her of the news.

They had both been furious, to be overlooked like this, it was insulting beyond words. Hollis rambled about how he had wanted to speak up at the trial, to condemn him for his actions. He spoke of how he would have given him a piece of his mind if it weren’t for the women in the room, he hadn’t wanted to offend them with such harsh words. Lizette nods and pats his hand, speaking of his bravery in his actions; smart not to have tried to fight him so unprepared.

He had left her when Goddard was supposed to arrive, having already shooed him away after he fussed at wanting to stay. Hollis didn’t need to know certain things, perhaps at a later date, but not right at this moment. Half an hour passes until he arrives, and she waits patiently, going over the conversation she intends to have in her mind, practicing the words she would dismantle him with.

There is no tea set out to drink so late in the evening, instead there was a bottle of fine wine, though Lizette had not indulged. Goddard doesn’t either when he takes a seat opposite her, shaking his head when she offers him the bottle. An excuse of not being able to drink so heavily with the potions he took, it wasn’t exactly true, he simply wanted to keep his wits about him.

“I suppose her mother has gone after her to stop her from having that child?” Lizette says, folding her hands neatly in her lap. She hasn’t apologised for slapping Goddard, nor for causing what would eventually be a scar upon his cheekbone. Not that he had been dismayed at the thought of it. He already bore a scar from an arrow slicing through his cheek just over a decade ago, a lucky miss, an inch or two left and he would have died on that battlefield.

“No, she’s gone to ask what she intends to do, and if they wish to marry, then Gylda has at least some of her family there.” Goddard says, his brows furrowing together. She seemed so against Gylda having a child and Goddard couldn’t quite figure out why. The most obvious reason would be the line of inheritance, but Lizette was twelfth in that list, and that doesn’t count the spouses of his children nor Gylda’s unborn child.

“You say this like you blame me for leaving.” She sniffs indignantly.

“Then I apologise, I only meant that _I_ cannot be there.” He shakes his head slightly and supresses the eyeroll that threatens him. It would be too much of a risk to leave Skyhold and the Inquisition so that he might see his granddaughter married. If he could, he would convince them to have a second ceremony, as the first would be a small rushed thing so that they might marry before the child. They should have something grand, something befitting, something noble.

Goddard finds himself lost in the fantasies of such weddings. He was noble enough that he was allowed to travel to see his children be wedded, to celebrate the namedays of them, and to be there at the birth of his grandchildren. Rather waiting outside the room as a ball of anxiety. He would pray later, pray that if this child is to be born then it is born safely, for both mother and babe.

“Always putting work about family, a shame you didn’t do that with that tutor of yours.” Lizette say, pulling him from happier memories.

“Must we argue this again?” He sighs. They had been over this conversation time and time again. Lizette still wished to convince him to abandon his search for Florent, and Goddard would not have it.

“I’m trying to persuade you to let him go.” She reaches over and grabs his hand, patting in almost condescendingly, as if she was gently reminding a child not to say certain things and not urging a man almost three quarters of an age old. “It would be better for all of us.” She pulls her hands back, folding them in her lap once more. It was a pretence she had always kept up. The perfect and immovable woman. What Goddard would do to see her have a little fun once in a while, to have a glass of wine and make silly jokes because she’s a little bit intoxicated.

“Not for the Baroulx family.” He says. Goddard knew of family loyalty. It should have been family above all else, but there had to be a line drawn somewhere. Blind allegiance led people to bad places despite their supposed good intentions, it was the sole reason why he took advisors who contested his decisions. If he wanted to lead like a tyrant he could find people who thought like him, who felt like him, and would follow him to the ends of Thedas just to conform to his orders.

“They’re of little importance to us.” She sniffs, as if the mere mention of the name had brought something foul into the room.

“Lizette.” He bites, calming himself when his tone is far too aggressive for such a conversation. Goddard didn’t intend to have his sister here only to argue with her, and if that was her intention then he would rather she leave. There were more important things to do that surrender to the arguments of siblings. “How long will you be intending to stay? We can sort out better living quarters if you are to remain longer.” The question doesn’t come out as well as he had wanted it to, and Lizette’s face pinched at the true meaning of his words.

“Am I unwelcome?” She asks boldly. Almost challenging her brother.

“No, I am however, trying to win a war. I cannot have family around me asking after my time when-”

“But you can have your children, and your wife, and your grandchildren?” Her painted eyebrow raises just a fraction, the kind of expression their mother pulled when she thought they were lying.

“All that remains of my family here is Yetta.” It’s a saddening truth. Twyla had left with her family to return to her daughter, Fulton had left to return to his wife because Goddard had irritated him to the point of running away, and Wakefield; how his heart aches, Wakefield was never coming back. Lei was, well, he hadn’t seen the young man in days but he should be about somewhere.

Nightmares sometimes plague him. Wherever he looks his hands are covered in blood, his sword in hand, and Wakefield is simply lying there. Sometimes there is no red lyrium, sometimes he has no anchor, sometimes he stands in a gilded ballroom with onlookers staring at him with bloody hands, judging him for the murder of his son. Goddard had spent a few months wondering whether trying to save the mages from Alexius had been the right decision, if he had gone to speak with the Templars instead, perhaps his son may have been saved.

“Fret not, for I am here, and I will stay as long as I am needed.” Lizette whispers. Her face softens for a moment, and it reminds Goddard of how they were as children. But it was lost in a roll of her eyes and glance at the heavy fabric of the drapes. “Of course, I wouldn’t have to stay here if I was, oh I don’t know, say, gifted a large piece of land.”

“Lizette.” He scolds. Of course, how could he have thought she wouldn’t have heard of the trial this morning. The gossip had been following him all day. They were calling it a masterstroke in the grand game, but all Goddard could think of was his guilt for not sorting the troubles out sooner. Lives could have been saved if it weren’t for personal delays.

“Milward is partially paralysed, how can you expect him to run a quarry he cannot walk?” She scoffs. It pulls Goddard’s focus from the fire, his brows pulling together in a very obvious frown. Her tongue was poisonous at the best of times, though it could be void-like and venomous if she felt slighted in any way. Lizette doesn’t look at him, but it tells him more than she wants him to know. She knew it would rile him, and she knew how he reacted to those who insulted his brothers.

Vividly she remembers the time when someone had the gall to not only laugh at Fulton’s death at such a young age, but to the go on and insult Milward in the same breath. Goddard’s face had flushed red with anger, crooked teeth bared like an animal as he launched himself across the dining table with such force that half the drinks were spilled and the guests flinched back in fear as their own food tumbled into their laps.

Five men had attempted to pull him off of the younger Lord, groaning with newly absent teeth and a completely shattered nose and brow, but only three had succeeded. Goddard was a Champion with a wealth of fighting experience, and it had only been the gentle squeeze of his wife’s hand upon his arm that had calmed him enough to remove himself from the situation. The younger lord had lost his eye and his nose ached whenever the wind blew too cold. House Trevelyan hadn’t compensated them back then, not with Aaric in control of the family. But Goddard had eventually made amends.

“Lorene’s family has extensive knowledge of mining, they were the best people to put in place to keep this in the Trevelyan household.” Goddard says, trying not to fall into a quarrel. Neither Lizette or Hollis had any knowledge on quarries or ore, putting them in charge would have been a disaster.

“I _am_ a Trevelyan.” She states.

“You are Lady Unberge.”

“I am higher up than he is in the line of succession.” Lizette turns to her brother, unable to stop the pinching of her face nor the flaring of her nostrils.

“So are all of my children, and all of my grandchildren.” He scoffs, shocked that she would claim succession when she isn’t the first in any place. “But this is not about the line of succession, it’s about giving the best job to the best person.”

“Which is why Twyla, your first born, will succeed you as Bann?” She rolls her eyes almost extensively. How Goddard could claim one thing and then deny it in the next breath was beyond her, it was both absurd and hypocritical.

“Most likely.”

“ _Ridiculous_.” She scoffs.

“Lizette you cannot argue against giving titles to Twyla because she is a woman yet demand them for yourself.” Goddard runs a hand through his hair, letting his laughter spill over his lips about how absurd she had been acting.

“I never said such a thing.” Lizette snaps, her fingers pinching at the folds of her skirt, composure filtering away in her anger.

“You always do, I’m merely skipping the next twenty minutes of dancing around the subject.” He gestures dramatically with his hand, knowing full well there was little to stop them spiralling into another heated dispute. A deep breath is taken, his hand running across his face and dragging downwards. He would try one more time. “Lizette, you have two beautiful daughters of your own, can you not see to it that they receive the best you can offer them instead of trifling with my own children?”

“Why should you care? Lady Cutter nor Lady Unberge are of house Trevelyan.”

“They are my nieces.” Goddard accentuates each word, insulted by the insinuation that he cared less for them than any other member of his family.

“Yet are also forgotten in the order of inheritance.” She says it with her nose tilted upwards, trying to gather what little self-possession she had left. Goddard had crawled under her skin by giving Milward a section of land, everything bypassed her, _everything_.

“Sarhnia was not inherited, it was claimed.” He corrects her sternly. “It isn’t some golden city in wintery halls, it’s a damaged village that has been plagued with chaos. Milward and Lorene are the best for this job.” Milward was an architect. A man whose designs were becoming well employed across the Free Marches. He had knowledge of building homes in various plots of land, whether it be snow or sand, he had figured out how to theoretically create anything anywhere. Aside Lorene’s mining knowledge the village would flourish without question.

In truth, as something he wouldn’t yet divulge to his sister nor anyone outside of his wife, Milward, and advisors, Sarhnia was part of a contract with Emperor Gaspard. It would be kept under Trevelyan rule until one of Goddard’s grandchildren, or great-grandchildren, married one of Gaspard’s own. Uniting both families to create an heir who would oversee the village that Goddard had fixed. For now, he allocated the rebuilding of Sahrnia to his brother, who could fix it far better than he could.

He had spoken to Twyla about such things, with her daughter bearing a child, about what might already be decided for the unborn babe. If Gylda had a child of the opposite sex to Gaspard’s then they would marry. Whether things would change if Gaspard had a son first was unknown, but not unlikely. Lady Josephine had pointed out this was all based on the assumption that Gaspard could father an heir, he had no children, bastard or otherwise.

“Best for who?” Lizette asks, her face becoming redder with every word. Her fury leaking into the lines of her face. “Is it a gift of guilt, you’re living in a mountain fortress, the fabled Skyhold, and Milward can’t even stand to use the privy.” Her words are quick, biting, attempting to spit venom at her brother.

“Neither can you.” He states. Her face pinches again, rage mixing with embarrassment at the words. Goddard holds up his hand with askance, she was furious, and stepping closer to the line whence things could not be unsaid. “I love Milward, and I love you, if something came along that was better suited to your talents I would give it to you without hesitation.” Goddard says calmly, he doesn’t even know if Lizette had talents he could employ.

Goddard himself was a well accomplished soldier, with medals and a wealth of won standards to his name. Milward was pronounced in the architectural business, perhaps not to a dwarven standard, but still well enough. Lizette didn’t have anything but the merchants that she had married into, and even then, they truly belonged to the current head of house Trevelyan with the contracts Aaric had tied them up in.

It was unfair to think of his sister as untalented, but thinking back he cannot remember a sole thing she has stood out in. Perhaps that was simply the view of the Herald of Andraste. Believing you had been chosen by the Bride of the Maker and granted a boon in her name tended to alter his beliefs and his ego.

“Yet in all these sixty-nine years of my life it never has.” She says, and Goddard wonders for a moment if mind-reading was her talent, and the thought brings him to more jesting ideals.

“I became the Herald of Andraste when I was seventy-one, perhaps in two years’ time there might be something for you.” He shrugs lazily.

“Sarcasm is unbecoming.” She snaps.

“As is insulting your brother’s disability.” He says, brows twitching upwards. She purses her lips in defence, she had been outmanoeuvred in this conversation, and they both knew it. To say anything now would only add ammunition to Goddard’s arsenal, and she wouldn’t allow her brother to take anything from here, even if it was only words.

“Will you execute Mistress Poulin yourself?” Lizette asks, changing the subject just enough to bring them away from Milward, but not from the fate of Sahrnia.

“Why, would you prefer to?” He huffs, an eyebrow raised at her question, “of course, it’s a dignity I owe to her.” The issue of his injured arm had come up when he spoke to Cullen, who had offered to do it himself, or to speak to Grudge and prepare him for the job he had originally been hired for. Goddard wouldn’t have that. The decision to execute Mistress Poulin was his own, and he would bear her death upon his soul. He did remind them that he was _right_ -handed after all.

“You sound like our father.” She says, watching as the minor amusement falls from place under the weight of anger.

“I don’t do this for the thrill of killing someone bound and kneeling. I do it because if I can pass the sentence then I can perform it as well.” He bites, easily baited by her words. “If I cannot do the latter then the former is wrong.”

“It is late, Goddard.” She says, glancing at the oak of her door, ending the conversation when she thought she had won. Goddard stands, bowing slightly out of a respect that probably wasn’t entirely mutual.

“Sleep well.” He mutters, leaving the room and not stopping to hear Lizette’s response. No doubt she wasn’t going to say anything at all. It angered him how casually she would throw remarks out about their brother or Florent. There was little decorum in her attitude when they were together in private, and she only curbed her tongue when she needed to present herself as better than others without mocking them. Which was a rare enough event in noble society.

The only good thing he had to look forward to was finally crawling back into his bed beside his wife. Part of him hoped she would be asleep, he had been affronted by both questions and congratulations over the trials this morning and he would dearly like to have that part over with. But, he knew, that Yetta wouldn’t protest if he asked for a lighter conversation. In fact, he knew she’d more than likely stay away from the subject of his work, and comfort him with a kiss to his forehead and her arms around him.

A blessing she was, and a blessing she always had been. He takes a moment standing outside his bedroom door, thankfully not having been accosted on the way there, and tries to think of a way to show Yetta how much he appreciates the things she does on his behalf. Maker, but she was his everything.

Instead, he found Leliana waiting in his bedchambers, his wife sat at her own desk and writing her own letters. The subject was changed as he entered, and he hadn’t quite been able to capture what they were saying before. Leliana stands with a slight bow, and Yetta stops writing, and for the slightest moment Goddard feels fear wrapping around his stomach. There was something wrong.

Lei took his leave from the group of recruits, claiming he was going to look for a few more branches throw on the fire. It was evident enough that the young man wanted some privacy, and all that he offered at the lewd comments was a blush and a shake of his head. Let them think what they wanted to, if anything it would give him more time alone to read the tome himself. He had tried to read it before discretely, but paranoia overcame him, and he quietly buried the tome back into his personal satchel.

The group was doing well, or that is what Lei thought to himself. Colt and Lawrence had managed to get passed their incident, with proficient apologies denied; it hadn’t been anyone’s fault but the Pride they had slain. Annelise was the only recruit who still found fault with the thief, and it was obvious to all of them. The two hid their animosity around the Warden Commander, and stayed out of each other’s way but made sure the other knew.

Despite that sole rift in the group, there had been a small romance beginning to bud between two members. Kina had become very attentive to Quincy’s wounds, and they blundered and blushed after one another. Lei had been the recipient of Colt’s confusion over the matter. The man believed the Warden Commander would put a stop to them and mumbled something about fraternisation between the recruits. Even Lei could tell the thief had something of his own crush budding on one of them.

Kina was a young elven mage, too young to be caught up in warfare. Large brown eyes and long twisting locks of dark hair, she was short as most elves from the alienage were; never quite getting the best nutrition in the worst parts of the cities. She asked after the Dalish once, having heard rumours of Lei’s past and hearing his untameable accent. But he could not talk of such brilliant times with his birth clan, but he spoke fondly of a few memories of his mother. Some Dalish, he remembers saying, were proud and strong clans, who saw each other as family and not competition.

Quincy had a height and a weight to her, wrapped in muscle and skin marred with uneven patches of tan. She had three missing teeth at the back of her mouth, and a scar that ran from under her cropped blonde hair. They had each introduced themselves, and she never said where she came from; only that she wouldn’t go back. She was in Skyhold’s cells for stealing a drakolisk, though she had been three sheets to the wind at the time.

It wasn’t so hard for Lei to find a quieter place to sit; several trees had been felled by storms in time since passed, and nobody had cared to take the wood for themselves. The area was clear mostly, small mushrooms sprang around him and the trees rose high, heavy with branches and nests. If Lei closed his eyes he could almost hear the sound of Velanatheryn working with ironbark, shouting orders to Adanatelni who was to succeed her. He could hear the sound of Pironan arguing with his sisters, Alvenivador whistling in the smokehouse, Serenathali and Fiosaelaren sparring with bare fists and bare feet. But most of all he can remember he sneering ego of his younger half-sister Haletheryll, and he banishes the memories and slinks back to the present time.

Lei pulled light from his fingertips, pressing them against the Las’dirthen, carefully opening the tome as he had done yesterday. There hadn’t been any kind of outburst from the book, instead it had opened like any other; and he began to drink in those words desperately. Lei’s fingers ran along them to highlight every word reading them truly under his own light. The memories of his clan faded quickly under the words he consumed, finding them almost addictive.

The tome spoke of the Mirtha’ghila a Falon’din, a scourge of the Dalish. It appeared as if the man came from nowhere, dressed in swathes of heavy fabric, as if winter became him. His staff bore towering black fire, something that was only seen in the light of day and could burn villages to the ground unseen at night.  He bore the old scars of the Ar’harel; a practice that was unseen for two ages. Though the Hahren knew of such things and warned their clans of him.

It spoke of how he did not try to claim peace in the name of Falon’din, but ordered lives to be sacrificed in the name of the god that would soon walk their lands. No clan wished to aid him, for Falon’din would not wish for such a thing. He did not take lives, but he guided them after death. To meet him earlier than intended would be a burden on him. But it wrought no sympathy from the man, and he took the lives that were unoffered, consuming them for his own gain, for his own army.

Lei wonders how exactly the man he had met could be the same as the one in this tome. He had not been cruel, nor asked for his life, nor tried to take it for himself. But the Ar’harel, a cross carved over the lips of the liar, he had those. Clan Mi’Durgen took to those older punishments, he had seen one boy with those exact bloodied lips.

The tome didn’t say anything about a brother, nor a wolf at his side. Only of the Revenant, and the army of corpses that Lei never saw. But the Las’dirthen, for Lei hadn’t yet discovered a title beyond that warning, spoke of things that passed a few ages ago. These were not modern, and it brought a lingering fear to Lei. The man he had met, if it truly was him, had retained his elven immortality. A boon to a man as cruel as he.

“Lei.” The voice comes from behind him, and he rushes to slam the tome closed, and to dispel the magic at his fingertips. He hadn’t heard the Warden Commander approach, and he doesn’t know whether it was because he was so absorbed in the words or if he just hadn’t been listening at all.

“Warden Commander, Ser.” He turns on the fallen tree he sits on, moving to stand until Andrastopher waves him off. Lei watches as he takes a seat beside him, uncaring of the moss that would stain his breeches. Most of the recruits still bore stains from fighting the demon of pride, not all of them knew how to best clean their clothes in the river.

“Enjoying the book?” He asks, glancing at the thing momentarily. He can’t read it in such dim light, his eyes still adjusting as Lei had plunged them into near darkness. “You’ve been over an hour.” Andrastopher had tried his best to keep himself awake and from Oscar’s questions, each day it got harder and harder to avoid. Sharing a tent with Lei had been a gift; it would be inappropriate to share intimacies with an unwilling participant nearby. With recruits in tents so close together it was better they didn’t hear him moaning in ecstasy, lest they respect him a little less for his lust-filled warbles.

But he had learnt something, the scout was bound for Amaranthine docks, which meant his information came from overseas. He held no lands outside of Ferelden, nor had anyone of specific interest there either. Only that of the Qunari, and he doubted that they would betray him, perhaps a Tal-Vashoth then, he wondered. But they would not be so idiotic as to meet in Andrastopher’s own city.

“An hour? I must have gotten caught up in it.” Lei admits shyly.

“A gift to be able to read in such darkness.” Andrastopher says, glancing up at what little moonlight filters through the leaves above them. Lei bites his tongue and scratches at his jaw, trying to think of an excuse that wouldn’t be too embarrassing. He could lie and say the book wasn’t for reading so much as it was to distract the group; if only to give him privacy in more intimate matters. But that was too humiliating. Especially given he was to be Andrastopher’s apprentice and spend his life beside him.

Lei was Dalish, he could claim he wanted to be alone in the undergrowth again. Andrastopher knew of how much time he had spent on his own even in his youth, and solitude could be a peaceful place. Though that didn’t mean the Warden Commander wanted Lei to find comfort in loneliness. The Grey Wardens were a group who worked almost entirely on being able to communicate well, the taint gave them access to the hive mind of the darkspawn, and it influenced them in their own lives and how they acted as one.

“Are you not able to fight with magic?” Andrastopher asks, breaking the silence when Lei cannot form words. It would be shameful to admit, but he hadn’t thought that the young man would be. He had only just seen that unnatural brightness which only meant one thing could be true. A strange thing that the boy he had come to see as some sort of surrogate for Maxence, a second chance to right things, was a mage too. It wasn’t something he wanted to say aloud, it was folly, and a thoughtless ideal to stick to, but he didn’t want to stray from it.

“I prefer not to.” Lei shrugs.

“Do you have a reason for such decisions?” He glances at Lei’s palms as light begins to flutter from them, small shapes that rise up and settle around them. His eyes adjust quickly, admitting the sight is beautiful, even if the Qun damns it. Lei is nervous, even at producing such a simple thing, and he looks older for a moment, with the worry that begins to ebb into the corners of his eyes.

“I can’t throw ice and fire like Kina can.” Lei admits, almost shamefully, “I read about the Champion of Kirkwall, and how he used entropy and chaotic magic, but that’s not me either.” _Blood magic_ , or so Andrastopher had been led to believe. Though that hadn’t stopped him from assisting the elder of the two brothers. Despite his annoyance and thick accent, Marcus Hawke was intent on curing the blight from the ruined lands of Lothering, and they had kept in touch over such things. The Champion claimed he had certain fond memories there, and Andrastopher knew exactly which nights the younger man spoke of.

Stories that Zevran had pulled out of him one night when they spoke of past lovers. The Antivan had mentioned meeting the Champion just some ways outside of the city of Kirkwall, and the mage had asked after Andrastopher when he came up in the conversation. Even if it hadn’t been heavily implied by Marcus, Zevran would have figured out they had enjoyed each other’s intimate company at some point. Not his finest moment, he had admitted.

“All magic can be a form of offense, Lei.” He places his hand over Lei’s watching the light roll over his fingertips and float mindlessly away. “Light can blind, it can burn if strong enough, and it can lead to illusions of whatever you desire it to be.” Illusions of beauty, he thinks.

“You know a lot about this.” He says, pulling away from the conversation. Lei didn’t want to speak of his own magic; shapeshifting wasn’t so widely accepted amongst the chantry and humans. Some considered it to be a form made to deceive and those that use it to be liars, and others considered it to be the magic of barbarians. No consideration for it’s true Dalish origins, or so that man had told him, the one he was beginning to believe truly was the Mirtha’ghila a Falon’din of all those years ago.

Though Lei felt hypocritical at the thought; shapeshifting _was_ made to deceive others, and he had done so to gain coin. The Inquisition had promised to keep such things from the eyes of the public. To all who knew him at that time, he had been the victim of a mage, turning him into a bear to dance for others, not that he had been doing it himself all along. It had been a dishonest thing to do, but Luin had convinced him there was no harm. The people paid to see a dancing bear, and they saw one.

“I am the Grey Warden Commander of Ferelden, I recruit mages from time to time.” He says it almost flippantly, the nearest thing to a jest that Lei had heard from the other man. Andrastopher pulls his hand back, feeling the familiar ache in his wrists beginning to return. He would have to wear his brace in the following days, and hope that nothing would come upon them that would require too much effort on his behalf. Age and his staggering height was a terrible combination.

“Based on their blinding skills?” Lei laughs.

“Sometimes.” His eyebrows twitch upwards in amusement, and he inhales deeply to forget the emotion that had slipped into his features. “Are you a healer, Lei?”

“No. I know about herbs and botany, but not of magic.” He shrugs, remembering the quiet lessons his mother had given him about which plants to eat and which he should never touch.

“Perhaps it would be a good idea to learn, if only the simplest of spells.” Andrastopher says it honestly, even Morrigan had something of healer’s knowledge which they had all benefitted from at some point. She would have had to have learnt stronger spells to have survived the stab wound he had carved into her gut all those years ago. “Kina did well the other day, she confessed after that she knew very few healer’s spells, and they were only those of novice standard.”

Andrastopher had expected her to explain her fear away at some point. But it had been well placed fear, the spells she had shouldn’t have been able to heal the wound Lawrence had sustained. Something which still remained as an issue between the group, rather an issue for Annelise. They had tried to disguise it, but he was no fool, and he knew of the rift that was cracking between them.

“She saved Lawrence’s life.” Lei said, a smile bearing weight on his lips, they had all been shocked when they had heard. Not one of them knew of the incident that had passed, and Dian had been the one to point out that was a terrible thing to admit to. One of their own had been injured, and nobody had taken the time to check. Only Andrastopher, and it seeded admiration for the Warden Commander in the guts of the recruits. “Lady Leliana told me your son was a healer.” Lei adds without thought.

“He is.” Andrastopher stands, brushing dirt from his breeches where he had sat and straightening out his clothing. “I also said not to speak of him.”

“My apologies.” Lei says quickly, following him to stand, clutching the Las’dirthen tome in one hand. He dispels the small light forms and scratches at his jaw under the gaze of the other man.

“It is forgiven.” He nods, gesturing in the direction of their home for the night. “Come, Lei, the night grows short, and we rise with the sun.”

To one side, unbeknownst to the two men whose eyes have yet to adjust to the natural darkness, somebody watches on, glaring with a fury budding in their gut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Ar'harel." : I deceive.


	43. Second

Goddard has to swallow thickly around the lump forming in his throat. If it were something solely to do with the Inquisition then Yetta would not be here, and since she is very much in the room sitting politely behind the elegantly carved desk, the only thing that comes to mind is that his family is in danger somehow. Twyla’s family was on the road. She had soldiers but, he thinks with fear, but what if that was not enough?

Rifts still appeared over Thedas, the breech might have been stabilised but there were still patches that were yet undiscovered. It would be a trial to be able to find them all, and another to close them. If his daughter had come upon one, with her children in tow. Maker, the thought is too much. He should have gone with her or had Gylda brought here. Goddard would not lose another child before he fell himself.

“Lady Leliana.” Goddard greets, glancing over at his wife for a moment. She had no tears in her eyes, it couldn’t be family, then, perhaps it was Florent. Had the scouts in his estate found him? His eyes flicker between the two women, stuck as if his feet had grown roots into the stone below him. Emotions rise turbulent again, Twyla must be fine, but Florent, if they had found him. Found the minimal amount of what might remain of him, shattered by a great hammer and rotted into nothing. The pit of fear in his gut swells into something anew. Guilt, sorrow, a mix of emotions branching out inside of him like poisoned vines.

“I have news, it could not wait until morning.” She says it as if it has meaning beyond the Inquisitor’s scrambling thoughts. He looks almost frightened, as if he was about to take on the breech again. It’s hidden behind a carefully constructed wall, a wall made of strength and constitution, something impenetrable and unyielding. Yet, it remains a wall all the same.

“To be taken in my chambers?” He asks, a brow raised. His voice is strong, natural, proud in its Free Marcher lilt twisted into a Trade tongue.

“It is urgent, Dee.” Yetta whispers. She stands from her seat, crossing the room and taking her husband by the hand to sit him down. There is worry in her features, she hides it better than her husband, but it is there in the corner of her eyes and between her lips. Years of marriage allowed him to read her so clearly, as if her thoughts were ink upon her skin.

“This is a family matter?” He says it to his wife, keeping her manicured hand in his own. The colour on her nails is slightly chipped at the edges, she must have been drumming her fingers on the desk in anxiety. For a moment he’s glad his arm is still in a sling; Yetta wanted to grab both of his hands, and sometimes he feels filthy and strangely guilty when the Anchor touches her. It burned more often than not, and he wore a glove to bed to hide the eerie green light it would produce every once in a while. Yetta didn’t need to be plagued by such a thing.

The Anchor had once been a boon from Andraste, everyone told him it had, and with nothing to disprove the idea it was easy to fall into. But facing Corypheus, as that demon held him aloft, his own weight tearing at the structures of his shoulder. It cracked his faith, after seventy-one years, his faith had begun to crumble. Then Solas had told him it was elven. The Anchor, the only thing that had given him warmth as he stumbled through the snow, listening to the singing wolves who celebrated their newfound dinner, it was not his. He had forgotten it amidst the nightmares of his dying son, his mind deciding he could grieve a child but not his faith, cruel unto himself.

“Serah Lei Mi’Durgen has left with the Warden Commander to undertake his Joining, Herald.” She states as if that could explain everything. Goddard glances at his wife, turning away from Leliana, his eyes are glazed, struggling to come to terms with the spiralling thoughts he plagues himself with. The spymaster must have known that he had not yet publicly accepted Lei, nor had he done so in private. To bring up such things could interfere with his marriage, more so than his own mistakes had, and he would not have the Inquisition tainting this.

He feels slightly irritated that he hadn’t been told that Andrastopher had left. The man had been invited here to take care of the werewolf problem, and as far as Goddard knew, they still had one. Less human deaths had occurred as of late, but there were still nug carcasses found littering the mountainside. It could kill humans, and that was threat enough. Wherever the thing went it was still culpable for murder, and he would have whoever was guilty hanged for their crimes.

“Are they well?” Goddard asks, glancing over to Leliana once more. He doesn’t understand why this couldn’t wait until the morning. Unless the pair had been happened upon, and now the Warden Commander had been kidnapped or killed leaving Skyhold, there’s hardly political implications. He doesn’t want to imagine what either of those scenarios meant for Lei. The son of the Herald of Andraste, and only a few short months to have adjusted to such a thing.

His thoughts remained turbulent. Twyla could still be in trouble, he was foolish to let her go without stronger protection, he was foolish to let her go in the first place. The Inquisition had many enemies, and his position as Inquisitor put all of his family in danger. Leliana had once suggested to keep his family split apart, so that someone may survive away from an attack; but Goddard could only see that as a split front, how could he save his family if he was on the other side of Thedas.

“Lei may die in this process.” Leliana says it normally, as if it were a comment about the weather or asking a healthy man how he fared.

“He might…” Goddard turns fully to his spymaster, throat swelling once more, his mind sobering with the news. “You mean to tell me this war might claim another of my children’s lives?” It’s hissed through his crooked teeth, as if desperately trying not to have Yetta hear his words, but unable to stop his rage filtering into his lungs. His grievance turned to fury, boiling inside of him as if the Anchor had set itself in his stomach.

“It is possible.” She nods as she says it. Finding information about the Grey Wardens was a difficult enough task. She had dug into their pasts with a careful grace, picking up certain pieces of information that she could find over the last few months, constructing them in such a way that they might make sense.

Leliana knew little to nothing of the Grey Warden ritual, only that it is imperative to be kept a secret, something which had not been adhered to entirely. She had read the diary of a young Warden who had written about the Warden Commander, the slight breeze that he was on the battlefield that could whip into a devastating whirlwind within seconds. It had been an accidental revelation, the words that spoke of how she missed Meggy, who hadn’t survived the Joining herself.

It gave her something else to dig into, and she found out about several Wardens who didn’t survive the ritual but became honoured Grey Wardens regardless. There was little else to find out, the order was as secretive as it could be, but she knew there was something in the Joining that could kill.

“Then _stop them_ , when did they leave?” He hisses it again, standing from the settee and grabbing for the cape he had slipped off when he entered. Goddard throws it over his shoulders quickly, grabbing for the clasp, faltering with the spymaster’s words.

“Renataday, last week.” Leliana speaks carefully, ensuring her words come across as well as intended. Goddard could ride for days and he might never catch up to them.

“That’s, one, two,” he counts the days back on his fingers, good at maths but bad with times and dates, “that’s four days _. Four days_ you have sat on this information.” Goddard snaps at her, cape abandoned harshly over the staircase bannister. He hears it slip over the edge, clasp clinking against the wood below, and the thick material pooling heavily.

“It was under control.”

“Was it? You will what, miraculously make this Joining less fatal for him? Pull him aside and tell him he cannot be a Grey Warden?” His words snipe quickly from his mouth, rushing to force his meaning heard. “Or perhaps you intend to assassinate the Warden Commander, Maker knows how much you hate each other.” He spits his final sentences, knuckles white as they grip the bannister, keeping hold of something to stay grounded. “Do _not_ have him killed.” He bites in afterthought, glaring at Leliana.

“Goddard.” Yetta warns, her voice cutting clear through his anger. She is still perched on the settee, she has made no move to leave nor to announce her continued presence.

Her husband’s rage was not a widely known trait of his. Those who heard stories of the man acting violently and not necessarily out of hand, usually couldn’t believe such a thing. Not of this man who was so aptly kind and considerate. For those who had seen it, it could be forgotten, but those who had suffered it, they knew he truly was the late Bann Aaric Trevelyan’s son. A man who had thrived on the violence of others, and had driven a need for bloody chaos into his eldest boy.

It had never once been turned on her, nor any of their family. She knew it never would be. But it was used for them, to defend them against whatever insults were strong enough to rile him to insanity. She remembers untoward comments about Twyla, and the resulting broken jaw; she remembers comments about herself, pregnant whilst her husband was at war, and the brawl between spouses that Goddard had clearly won. The one that haunts her, the worst that he had ever been, was against that lord who had lost his eye. They had been married for just under a decade, she was only twenty-three with Twyla, only a babe, bouncing in her arms.

The glances thrown in their direction, the borderline uncontrollable Lord Trevelyan. Bloodied hands, the rasping whine of an injured man and titters of gossip spreading through the dining guests. Goddard had kissed his daughter on the forehead, cupping the back of her head with a gentleness, belied by the blood and matter that stuck to the small wisps of black hair.

“Why tell me now?” Goddard asks, releasing the grip he held and scratching at his hair with irritation. It leaves a few strands sticking up and attempting to curl against the wax that held them down.

“My scouts haven’t been able to find them.” She admits.

“Of course, _of course not_.” He scoffs. He gestures wildly with his hand, throwing it out in exasperation. “How could I expect my _Spymaster_ to be able to find people?” It’s sarcastic, overzealous in a cruel way.

“There is something else.” She says, hiding the shame that builds in her. Goddard had a way of making people feel guilty. He only had to cast a glance their way and something rooted eagerly within. Something people had begun to call the Trevelyan stare, she had seen it in both Fulton and in Twyla, moments when their anger had budded to the point just before they snapped.

“ _What_.” The word is bile from his throat, anger encasing the care he should have. It is not a question, the three in the room know that, it is a demand.

“Andrastopher is a Ben-Hassrath assassin.” Leliana says, knowing that Yetta is still in the room, but unable to bring herself to ask her to leave. She could keep secrets to a certain degree. They were working together on trying to figure out Lizette’s intentions, and Yetta had been a blessing in the search. Her own letters would allow the Inquisition scouts to peruse the books that Leliana needed, perhaps it would upset Goddard, but there were things that needed to be done without his permission, more so if it was for his benefit.

“He, Andrastopher is what?” His words are breathless, barely rasping out from between his gritted teeth. “Not only does he have my son, _my child_ , deluded into a ritual that may kill him, but he works for the bloody Arishok, who I have so recently insulted by allowing an entire fleet of dreadnoughts to be destroyed by the same Venatori bastards that I’m supposed to be fighting!” Goddard’s voice spirals until he is red-faced and shouting, palm repeatedly heavy upon the banister.

“It is not her fault.” Yetta says, standing and brushing her skirts down. She stands valiant even at the mercy of the fury in Goddard’s face.

“It is, Yetta, _it is_ , because she is the one who had him brought here in the first place.” He points with an accusatory finger, angered by how she had gone behind his back, angered at the situation that she had put them in, angered that she would subject his wife to such things in a misplaced attempt to-

“He would have come looking anyway, for his father.” Yetta speaks softly, watching as the fight falls from her husband’s frame, and the flushed rage is engulfed by a drowning guilt. She watches as his mind runs through things once more, watching all those tell tale signs of Goddard coming to a realisation.

“I, Maker,” His hand curls into a fist, not to harm others but to dig his sculpted nails into the palm of his own hands, to relax the tension he held there. Silences dawns upon them, and Goddard is forced to swallow heavily once more, his throat abused by his own rampant emotions “leave us, Leliana.”

“Your Worship, Lady Trevelyan.” Leliana bows slightly, taking her leave of the room. Her message had been received even if it hadn’t gone smoothly; in truth she hadn’t ever expected it would. She would have to continue her conversation with Yetta another time, for now she would have to hope that Oscar came to no harm and was able to transport the requested books.

Silence sits between them, listening only to the sounds of Leliana’s boots retreating into the stairwell. Goddard waits until he hears the door to the grand hall open and close and waits further to see if he can hear footsteps returning to their door. He wouldn’t put it passed Leliana to spy on them together. She might work for him, but there were boundaries she often overstepped.

“Yetta, I didn’t think, I am, I apologise for, for, for everything, for even implying Lei is anything like Wakefield, and-” His words are stuttered, pulling at the fringes of his sling, twisting his hands together. The apology is heavy on his tongue, as broken as it falls, and shrouds him in a way that she had seen very few times before.

“Lei is your son, and through marriage he is mine.” Yetta whispers, reaching out to her husband, and laying a hand upon his. She glances at their matrimony rings, simple golden bands, even if her betrothal ring was lined with expensive gemstones and crafted to the highest quality. She hadn’t needed such a thing, Goddard had confessed that he had wanted something simpler than what he had given her when she had mentioned it.

“Don’t say this because you think I want to hear it.” Goddard says, his voice strained, chewing on his tongue.

“I am saying this because it is true.” She clears her throat, taking both of his hands, despite his sling, and kissing his knuckles. “I would pray every day and every night not to suffer the loss of another child, I will not let you face the prospect of mourning him alone.” Her meaning is not lost on Goddard, and for the first time since Lei had arrived in Skyhold, Goddard could openly call him his son. But at the impending cost he might pay, it frightened him. To call Lei his son and to grieve for him within days of the announcement.

“It is his nameday next month.” Goddard clears his throat again, blinking away the tears he could not name, and pulling Yetta to his chest. His broken arm is awkward between them, but it is excused. He would bear so much more to simply hold her in this very moment.

“Thirty-four.” Yetta agrees. Though she doesn’t know the day of Lei’s nameday, she knows Wakefield’s as if it was branded into her very heart. The fourteenth of Cloudreach, this year it would be on Drakonsday, a day she knows her husband hates. She remembers the painful labour that came a week earlier than expected. The hours she spent, the longer it took the more healers were brought in.

Goddard had sat beside her, and she remembers when he was taken from the room for a moment, and the strength he had built up around him when he came back in. Yetta knew there was something wrong then, when her husband wore the same expression he had when he went back to fight for a losing Orlais. She had prayed to the Maker, silently inside her mind, that if she should die, that their child might live.

 “Do you remember his fifteenth birthday?” He hums, swaying them gently.

“When Lilian kissed him as a gift?” She snorts, pushing those other painful memories to the back of her mind. Wakefield had been so affronted, embarrassed in such a crowd of family. It had been his first kiss, and it had been stolen from him. Yetta had heard Fulton comforting him through his red-faced tears, explaining about all of the embarrassing things he had done to win over Amelie. Which, at that time, was still a work in progress.

“He hated it.” Goddard laughs, wiping tears from his eyes. He could feel Yetta’s rumbling laugh shaking her shoulders, glad that it wasn’t sorrow that wracked her frame. News still tumbled through his head, but the rapid stream had calmed into something of a serene brook. Lei was in danger, the level of which was undetermined, but still he was not safe. The thought that stuck heavily in Goddard’s mind, was that he was his son, finally, Lei was his son.

They stand together for moments more, listening to Goddard’s slight hum, something of a tune he struggles to remember true to form. It’s something that binds them together in the disorder of war, finding each other and finding comfort that ties them to each other. The rest of the world falls away around them. Perhaps if they were looked upon by others it would look strange, odd, silly to be dancing to a falsely made tune in an empty room alone. Or perhaps they might see it for what it was, love in the most basic form, decades and decades of love and adoration that bound them together.

The execution had been as swift as it was promised. Poulin’s final words were something of an absent threat to the Inquisitor, invoking the Maker’s name should he do anything to harm those in Sahrnia. It seemed odd, even through the crowd’s ears, but if anyone could have a say in what Andraste’s Herald did, it was Her deific husband.

Goddard commended her to the Maker with a prayer, and let his sword split her neck. People had cheered with the weighted sound of her head hitting the gallows, more so when it was held aloft to show to the crowd. It was something that Goddard found garish and unnecessary, and he stayed for the small ceremony, before taking his leave as quickly as was polite.

The action was something noticed by No One, and probably many others, and he felt his brows furrow at the sight. He looked guilty, but it was something that was in the lines of his face before he had taken his place upon the gallows. Which meant he felt nothing for the death he was about to cause, and he couldn’t respect the man of that. There was almost nothing that No One could admire the Inquisitor for, and he didn’t like him in the slightest.

It had only been brief over the time in Skyhold; how little the two men had spent in each other’s company. An accidental meeting, an apology, and cell visitation, No One can’t remember much else. But there was something in the way he had looked at him, mostly during their first meeting, and it had been a thought that he had shoved to the back of his mind since.

Thom had told him much about his travels to the Emprise du Lion, everything about what Mistress Poulin had done. He had been angry about it, but his animosity had been redirected to the Inquisitor. Using him like that, as a bodyguard, because he knew the townspeople might not look kindly upon their new mayor. Things could have been different, he could have been merciful. But even Thom came around to the idea that his course of action would be the one most would take. It was a selfish idea wrapped in a selfless ideal.

The tavern was mostly full of those who had watched the execution. Buying drinks to satiate their adrenaline rush. Cabot would be making a fortune. So it was much harder to squeeze through the crowd that before, but it was manageable, if only because No One didn’t care for simple niceties like not spilling others’ drinks.

Thom and No One had managed to push in beside The Iron Bull and Dorian, the qunari always took up a fraction too much space that he was happy to relinquish should a friend want it. No One had silently conveyed a message about the Warden Commander, glancing up towards the room he occupied, and Bull had shaken his head. Cousland hadn’t returned and hadn’t gotten No One’s expletive message either.

“Are you alright?” No One says, louder than he should but the tavern is noisy with misplaced glee, bottle of ale dangling precariously from his fingertips. It’s open, full, and the head of it is still dry. There was a time when he would drink until he couldn’t see nor stand after an execution. But Thom needed him sober, Thom needed him more than No One needed a drink. There wasn’t any debate in the matter.

He sits on the armrest of the bench, it digs uncomfortably into his arse; but it’s better than standing and there’s no seats to be had. Thom sat on a barrel beside him and Dorian had the luxury of sitting on an actual chair. No One’s leg taps against Thom’s boot every so often, a little reminder than he’s still there when Thom’s vision seems to glaze over.

It’s a weight in No One’s guts at seeing the man look so guilty. Even last night the man had been off. Turning and grumbling through the night. He had a harder time trying to fake his sleep, to the point where he eventually gave up and carried on reading with a bottle of wine at hand. A book on botany and the medicinal and recreational uses of elfroot. Interesting enough to wonder if the gardens held so much elfroot for the later of the two uses.

Thom woke much earlier than he usually did, unable to fall back into his fitful sleep. No One had abandoned his supposed rest on the settee, settling instead beside Thom. He abandoned the bottle of wine in favour of stroking his hand up and down the man’s flank, soothing him into a state of half sleep.

“I’ve been better.” He sighs, he hasn’t had a drink yet either. “It’s not right… to want to do good, to be good, and have that turned against you.” It’s a mumbled offering, a hand running through his hair as he sags on the barrel. People were celebrating the execution, because that’s all they saw it as. A bloody festivity for people to enjoy. It reminded No One of the funerals in Orlais, parties to remember the goodness held in the people they had lost.#

But none of them had seen Sahrnia, the way Mistress Poulin had done her very best to save those she could. Scavenging beans and dried pork, buying the cheapest food and the roughest blankets, warm and fed with little quality to their names. But at least they could still claim their lives. Those she had left behind, that she had allowed to be taken, it wasn’t a choice she could have made lightly. She had saved the few at the cost of many. Perhaps there were different choices she could have made, but none of them bred confidence in being any more ideal.

He had expected better from Goddard. With every choice the Inquisitor surprised him, sometimes his morals were so skewed that he shouldn’t be allowed to bear the title of Herald of Andraste, but he truly believed what he was doing was right. From what Thom could see, Goddard still saw this as an even footed war, and not a scramble to save Thedas. But sometimes the man would act so valiantly, there was no reason people couldn’t revere him as they did.

Thom is reminded of when he saw all of Redcliffe’s rebel mages brought in wearing manacles and shackles, ill-fitted but they all had some form of one or the other. He had heard the shouting argument he and his advisors had taken to in the hall of the chantry. _Death is a choice_ , is one of the few phrases he’ll probably remember until he dies himself. It’s not really a choice, but, he can admit for a man who thought that, the Inquisitor hadn’t exactly died yet.

“Ladders of bone, Thom.” No One mumbles, a hand coming to rest on his knee, squeezing gently. He leans closer, resting his head on Thom’s shoulder and pressing into his side. The barrel is far taller than the armrest he sits on, and so Thom’s legs are elevated from the ground, his heels tapping against the wood every so often. Sometimes he does it absentmindedly; there’s an over active fiddler standing on the centre table, and even though people don’t have the room to dance, she still pulls in a lot of coin. No One thinks she looks familiar, but he can’t quite place it.

“What?” He asks, turning to No One, seeing the man flinch when his beard scuffs at his forehead. Thom didn’t realise they were so close, but the action brings a sliver of a smile to his lips. His hand comes to rest on No One’s back for a moment, caressing the length before returning to the bottle he’s holding.

“Nobility, they climb the ladder to get to the top, but eventually it has to end. People die on that ladder and it just makes the journey that tiniest bit longer for the people who can’t stop climbing.” He says, thumb flicking in and out of the top of the bottle. “Trevelyan, your Herald of Andraste, he can’t get any higher than that, he’s top rung, so he has to extend the ladder with the bones of others.”

“That’s,” Thom pauses, his brows pulling together at the image, “grim.” And said remarkably casually, but he keeps that to himself in a tavern full of customers fuelled by a second-hand bloodlust.

“It’s true. Can’t stop climbing once you’re on it, people tread on your fingers, they try to push you off, some people fall off because of their own mistakes.” No One grabs for Thom’s hand squeezing his fingers between his own, pinching the calloused skin enough for it to redden and then pale for half a second. He brings them to his lips, kissing the knuckles and offering an iron smile. “It’s nobility. _But_ ,” He adds pointedly, dropping Thom’s hand and catching it over the top of his other, “it’s not the fall that kills you, it’s where you land.”

There’s a symbolism in that, more than Thom picks up on, but that’s alright with No One. He fell off that particular ladder a few times; into a werewolves’ den, into the Piss Merchant’s lap, and into the cell with Thom. By far his best landing. This time, he imagines, he’ll have learnt his lesson, and won’t get back on the ladder made almost entirely of bone.

“I thought you were supposed to be cheering me up.” Thom huffs, squeezing No One’s hand under his own.

“I’m giving you sage advice.” He pulls back grinning, shifting, almost swearing that he can feel splinters growing in his arse cheeks. There are strips of numb patches there too, and he wonders why he couldn’t have just stood up for the past hour instead. No One is half expecting to see his arse flowering with bruises from this awful armrest.

“What, _don’t fall off ladders_?” He snorts, rocking into No One’s side and nudging him off balance slightly.

“Don’t climb them in the first place.”

“Your advice is terrible.” Thom laughs, rubbing an itch from the bridge of his nose.

“It’s made you smile though, so it can’t be all bad.” The words are out before No One can stop them, and he feels unabashedly romantic even in a tavern brimming with bodies and their overwhelming heat. Thom kisses him a moment, leaning down and pushing blonde hair behind his ear. It’s nothing too sexual, neither man would find themselves in a mood for such a thing so soon after Mistress Poulin’s execution; but it doesn’t stop Bull’s whistle and a large grey hand shoving into No One’s shoulder as they pull apart.

Thom clinks their bottles together, drinking only because they find themselves thirsty, and not because they need to get drunk. They both feel the slightest bit lighter, happier with the words that had passed between them. No One shifts slightly, grunting at how the armrest digs into his arse anew, and leans further into Thom’s side. His arm wraps around his hips, resting on the barrel and tapping his fingers on the rim in tune to the fiddler’s song.

Execution aside, it’s not such a bad day. The fiddler spins with grace, heeled boots clicking on the wooden table to provide something of a beat. Her face reddened as she performs, a casting glance around the room, catching No One’s eyes, and he immediately knows where he’s seen that flushed face before. He presses himself closer to Thom, glancing away, and she continues her tune, nobody any wiser.

An hour away from Skyhold, somewhere much more private than what the mountain fortress offers on a daily basis, the heavy thud of an axe on wood resounds. Or rather, the three willed it to. Garron’s aim was good, not the best, not good enough to be an archer. But judging distance and rotations and everything else needed in order to throw an axe was beyond him.

He had seen it happen when he was younger. In Starkhaven they held axe throwing competitions, style, flair, difficulty. He remembers the famous Griogal throwing the axe horizontally, splitting the target in two. The man didn’t win, disqualified in the end, but Maker if it wasn’t the best sight he’s ever seen. Garron had ended up being a bard, and he sang about Griogal’s strength even if nobody wanted to listen.

“You’re getting better.” Rats grins, her palm slapped on Garron’s shoulder as she jogs to get the axe from where it fell. He’d only stuck it in the tree a few times, but they were only flukes and accidents without the skill necessary to do it again. But he had been improving as of late, he wasn’t the best, and he knew he never would be, though he’s never going to be the worst ever again.

“You think so? I just want to throw an axe like-” Garron makes the sound of rushed wind and the motion of throwing a hatchet, “-you know?” He turns to Caldwell with a grin that’s dropped at the man’s reply.

“Seems kind of pointless, I mean, you’ve thrown your only weapon.” Caldwell shrugs, picking at the edge of his tunic. His coat was open, and in a very rare moment he wasn’t dressed in the Inquisition’s uniform. It was a day off, something that used to put him at a loose end but now he spent it with friends. Proper friends, not just those he worked with, but those who actually wanted to spend time with him.

“Maker, you suck the fun out of everything.” He laughs, making it obvious it’s nothing but a joke. Caldwell was a good man, and despite how embarrassed the elf could get, it was a joy to spent time in his company. He was probably the only one who was willing to give him a chance in the soldier’s ranks after all, he wouldn’t be here without him. Even if they were just as bad at fighting as each other.

“Sorry.” He coughs, scrubbing at the back of his neck. He chews his tongue for a moment, fiddling with the buttons of his coat and feeling slightly naked without his satchel. Wearing his own clothes, something that wasn’t a uniform or training leathers, it made him feel odd beyond description. Even with clan Maelarith he wore leather armour, tunics and breeches were only to be slept in, even then most people slept naked.

Garron senses the beginning of a tale poised on Caldwell’s lips, and he holds his own still to wait for the other man to speak. It was rare to hear of Caldwell’s past. He wasn’t secretive, it was more like he was embarrassed, or as if it hurt too much to speak of such things. Garron, mostly, filled the gaps with wild stories and tales and Griogal. Rats had her own stories too, she would ramble in Dalish when she got too excited. Mitch and Arah made good stories too, unimaginable things with an Anders’ accent, brilliant.

“Have you ever been, I don’t know, jealous, as if maybe you could have had something but you acted too quickly and now someone else has it instead?” He asked, picking at his coat again. Speaking in vague terms was not something Caldwell was practiced at, and it showed in his words and in the blush that spreads across his nose. But that was telling enough to Garron.

“Suppose so, is this about women?” Garron says his final words with a sly tone. He’s had many a tale of women upon his tongue and many a woman on his tongue without a tale needed. Garron fancied himself a bit of a charmer, it was an easy thing to do as a bard, and he had strong Starkhaven features upon his face. Nary a person could say the Starks weren’t the handsomest around. A sting of pride slips into him, and he feels the need to posture himself, to push out his chest and promote himself.

“A man.” Caldwell coughs, as if there’s something stuck in his throat. He can’t bring himself to meet Garron’s eye, and focuses on Rats in the distance, she’s fiddling with the axe head for some reason. She didn’t usually take this long to fetch the thing when it was her turn to throw it. Why they hadn’t just picked three up wasn’t something they hadn’t figured out, of course they hadn’t realised that throwing axes would be something they’d all be itching to do.

“Well, I am finely versed in lovemaking, my dear Runner, and if you have feelings for me-” Garron slides closer, eyebrows raised, hand perched to caress down his back. Caldwell had nice features, perhaps not something that would instantly catch the eye, but he was good-looking. A sloping Dalish nose, bright hair, a face that was reddened more often than not. Freckles too, some people had a fancy for freckles, not Garron, particularly.

“Not _you_.” Caldwell splutters, leaning away with his shoulders raised high.

“ _Ouch_.”

“Sorry, I,” He picks at the fabric of his clothing, even less inclined to look at Garron now. Caldwell turns when a gentle tap of a fist hits his shoulder. The Stark is worried, even with such wounded pride, he’s still there for him. “Do you know Ser Thom Rainier? I heard he used to cut wood with your group in the mornings.” Caldwell explains it loosely, hands turning over themselves in gesture.

“I do.” He nods. “Lazy bastard.” He mutters as an afterthought. Thom was hardly there to cut wood with them anymore, and there was only so much he could take of Raas and Wesley’s mooning stares. Leland didn’t think much of it, but Garron wanted to strip out his eyes with the borderline sickening crush between them. Wesley was weird-looking, with a twisted nose and an unusual hairline.

Of course, they said it was jealousy, because that’s what idiots do. Garron wasn’t jealous, no, he was there to do a job, just as they were, and he didn’t get paid to check out Raas’ curved _horns_ any more than any man. Turns out that hooking up with someone gave you leeway to stop working just as hard as everyone else. Maybe he was jealous, he wouldn’t admit it ever, but his name was mud in Starkhaven, and that sort of rumour spread like the blight in Thedas. When that had happened, he’d imagined how disappointed Griogal would be in him, despite never technically meeting his idol.

“His friend, lover, I, I don’t know what they are, his name is Wystan, maybe you’ve seen him around he has this long blonde moustache and scars over his face.” Caldwell points at his own face, his tongue even pokes out between his lips where he knows Wystan’s scar rests. A fleeting memory of that mouth on him flickers to the forefront of his mind. It had felt unusual, the split of his mouth, how his lips weren’t smooth like many others’.

“You mean Easton?” Garron’s face screws up as he says it, he never forgot a name. A bard wouldn’t be a bard if he couldn’t remember the simplest of facts.

“ _Easton_?” Caldwell mimics.

“Yes, his name is Easton Nock, there’s only one person with that face in Skyhold.” He laughs gently, ridiculous facial hair, “pretty sure his name is Easton, Thom said as much too.” Most of what he can remember of Easton is how he looked after that tavern brawl, staggered and bloody, probably bruised to shit in the coming days.

“I don’t understand.” Caldwell frowns.

“Maybe you misheard him.” He shrugs, gesturing to Rats who is still fiddling with the axe head. Garron tries to indicate she’s taking far too long, and his gut falls as she shrugs in the distance pulling the handle from the head, trying to wedge them back together. The two pieces clack loudly against each other, not slotting back together neatly or stable enough no their own. The thing is broken, entirely broken, they’d be lucky if they didn’t take it from their wages. It was a good axe.

“No, I call him Wystan all the time, that’s his name.” Caldwell says, remembering when they spent the night together. Wystan he had said, and Wystan had been the only thing that came from his lungs that evening. “He told me that was his name.” It’s whispered after, could he have gotten it wrong? Surely, after all this time of knowing each other, Wystan would have said something. He didn’t seem like the kind to be too polite to correct someone, and in bed, no, his name _must_ be Wystan.

“Huh.” He shrugs, “Maybe it’s Easton Wystan Nock, or Wystan Easton Nock?” Garron shifts over when Rats returns, letting her sit between them both, so that all might look upon the corpse of the axe. It’s fucked, there’s no way of fixing it at all.

“Who’re we talking about?” Rats says, handing the broken axe to Garron. It was his fault it was broke after all, and he could be the one to explain why he was throwing good Inquisition weapons at trees so he could look nifty on the battlefield. She didn’t want to be around to hear that again, Griogal this, Griogal that, bloody awful in her opinion.

“The guy with that long blonde moustache, always wears that rug on his back.” Garron taps his own shoulder with the handle, puffing out his cheeks in thought; the axe truly was buggered. They could always just switch it; the quartermaster was a stickler for signing weapons in and out though. He could charm the old codger, perhaps, probably not.

“He used to be a Brother, you know?” Rats says, remembering the odd looking fellow in the gardens. She had only been there to pick elfroot as a favour, and eavesdropping was a fun thing to do in the right corners of the mountain fortress. Humans were so loud sometimes. “Saw him in chantry robes a few times, always thought he was knocking off one of the Sisters.” She laughs. Even for a human he didn’t look Andrastian enough to be wrapped in those stuffy things.

“You know him?” Garron says. His brows raise at Caldwell, all Rats had to do was say either Wystan or Easton and-

“Eustace, yes, he-”

“ _Eustace_?” Caldwell shouts.

“Mythal, what’s your issue?” She flinches from him, her thicker brows furrowing together to scold him with a quick push.

“Runner’s jealous he’s knocking off Thom.” Garron whispers from beside her, nudging into her with a grin tickling his lips.

“I am _not_.” Caldwell hisses, reaching over to push at the Stark.

“Maybe his name is Wystan Easton Eustace Nock?” He hides behind Rats as he says it, grabbing her shoulders and dodging Caldwell’s slapping hands. “We can call him _Ween_.”

“This isn’t funny.” He whines.

“Why would he lie about his name?” Rats asks, pushing Garron’s hands from her and shoving him off the fallen tree they’re sat upon. He has the gall to look affronted when he feels the squelch of mud under his arse. These were expensive breeches he had upon his legs, and now, almost entirely ruined.

“Well if my initials were Ween I’d be a bit embarrassed too.” He says, a hand thrown out to Rats so she might help him up. It’s ignored and it provides a little bit of comfort to Caldwell, who’s feeling very much like the victim in this conversation.

“ _Stark_.” Rats snorts, attempting to scold him. She kicks out with her barefoot jabbing him in the thigh with a well-placed heel. Her own laughter pools in her lungs, but she’s much better at hiding it. “Runner, maybe he’s just a liar, and if he’s a liar you’ve a better chance with this Thom.” She reaches out for him, to offer a comforting hand, but it’s refused.

“I don’t want _Thom_.” He shouts, standing and stepping back from both of them. Mythal, but he felt so silly, of course Garron wouldn’t take him seriously. The Stark was a bloody bard, a bloody idiot. Rats was, well she was, she was, just _not_ _listening_. Caldwell can feel his face reddening under their stares, watching as their thoughts came together.

“He wants Ween.” Garron snorts, pursing his lips to stop he laughter that bubbles from him. His laughter fails him as he watches Caldwell stomping away, calling out after him “oh, come on, Runner, it’s funny, _Runner_.” He stands as quickly as he can, to chase after him, but Rats holds him back by his wrist.

They hadn’t known each other that long, not long enough to be making jokes about who they each fancied at any rate. But Garron had little decorum in such things, and he knew he’d have to apologise to mend their friendship. Rats tells him to take the axe back himself and disappears into the trees like only a Dalish could. They’ve both left him to wallow in the mud. Somehow, the stains he’ll have to wash out aren’t the first thing on his mind, and neither is the old quartermaster.

Maker but he feels the guilt settling in his gut. Maybe taking the piss out of Caldwell wasn’t the best idea he’d ever had, and maybe he acted too friendly for people to adjust to. Garron scrubs at his face and picks up the broken axe, huffing when he figures it a metaphor for their friendship. Might as well have thrown that at a tree and watched it shatter into a dozen pieces.

Caldwell has an hours’ walk back to Skyhold to think about what he’s just heard. He could sulk about Garron’s stupid attitude, but he’ll figure that out later. Meeting with Wystan, or whatever his name is, entirely unprepared would be embarrassing. They’d had sex, he’d walked in on him masturbating, they’d had a good time together just as friends and he doesn’t even know his name.

For a moment he wonders if he’s being hypocritical, Wystan doesn’t know his name either, nobody does. Even Rats doesn’t know he’s Dalish. Or, maybe she does, but she hasn’t said anything. But he had a reason to hide his true name, and it wasn’t as if he’d been going around telling everyone a different name. His name _was_ Caldwell, maybe he couldn’t sign anything legally under that name, but he doubted anyone was going to read all of the Dalish customs just to scam him out of something.

He grumbles and chews at his lips as he walks. The feeling of betrayal seems to want to drown him, he hasn’t felt this awful in years. Wystan would have a good reason, wouldn’t he? But if he didn’t if this was all just a game to him. It’s too cruel to think of, they were friends, they were supposed to be friends.

Lizette had watched the execution this morning with distain hidden in her features, it had been forcefully put there to hide the emotions that had actually pulled through her aged body. Her brother, for a moment, she had to remind herself that Goddard was her brother and not their late beloved father.

She hadn’t been allowed to the nearby towns to see the executions in her youth. But that didn’t mean during the shopping trips that she and her mother had shared, that she didn’t run through the winding alleyways to watch them. In the distance, sitting upon a raised platform with other noblemen, she could see her father’s proud face. Brimming with joy at the sight of the gallows. The blood that was spilt, it alit his face with a glow that seemed as if he gazed upon the golden city itself.

For a while she had fantasized that gaze upon herself. She would be the modelled child, the favourite, the one that everyone would know; and Aaric would proudly tell them, _that’s my daughter_. It had never happened, not even when she had removed Goddard from favour. Caught in bed with a man, a man that Aaric had hired. Not only had he been betrayed by his son but by a man he had been paying to do so. He should have been thrilled with the revelation, that Lizette was there to protect him from such disloyalties.

But that hadn’t been enough, for he turned his gaze to her younger brother. Fulton, the one who had helped Goddard escape from the path their father put him on, just so that he might have a chance to redeem himself. Then after him, Milward, who was nothing but a child, nine years old. It was insulting and humiliating. More so when she was toted around at parties in an attempt to marry into a wealthy family by her mother. Hollis had been a good match, better than some, but not the best by any means. Couldn’t give her a son, couldn’t produce the heir that would have trumped both Goddard and Milward.

She had wanted to learn how to fight, to wield a sword and a bow. Maker knows Goddard was useless at the latter despite all attempts. But Fulton was the bowman, smart and cunning, with dexterity and wit that few could match, and Milward was the biggest, the strongest; he would wield her father’s great hammer in his name. Lizette was there to warm her husband’s lap and nothing more.

As Goddard had swung his sword, in the final moment of Mistress Poulin’s life; Aaric had flashed before her eyes. Hair shorn to nothing upon his head but a set of thick brows, pale eyes that glistened almost white, heavy jaw held high. She was disappointed when she had blinked. Returning to the sagging features of her eldest brother, his dark eyes drooping with his seventy-three years, and the pathetic attempt to keep something of his thinning hair. He hadn’t even celebrated her death by holding her head aloft. It was unsatisfactory, and it had pulled at her love for her father, distorting it with Goddard’s image.

She had returned inside soon after, no desire to spend time with the less than noble revellers. There was work to be done, and that included making her way up those dreadful winding stairs that played havoc with her knees, in order to speak to the woman who would soon be Divine. Goddard was smart enough that he wouldn’t choose a Pentaghast as Divine, Maker forbid he give the holiest seat in Thedas to a Nevarran who had abandoned her nobility.

This spymaster of his, she would make a good enough Divine. Of course, she was an Orlesian dolt, and not much better than a Nevarran by any standards, but at least she knew her proper place. Perhaps, she thought, perhaps becoming Divine could be her place in the world. With a still in her step she wonders whether that is what Goddard had meant last night. Two years was a reasonable time to work that decision into matters, to persuade Thedas that Lizette could become Divine.

A smile creeps upon her lips, and she decides that she doesn’t need to take the stairs to see the spymaster. She would bide her time, presenting herself to the masses as a possible candidate for Divine, and have them support her instead of the other options available. Thedas does not need a soldier nor a spy to be Divine, she needed someone who’s faith was unshakable, who had the same blood as the Herald of Andraste.

She would make a brilliant Divine, she thought, her ways would shape Thedas for the better. The circles, those would have to come back, with tighter restrictions to stop anymore rebellions, Thedas wouldn’t stand to have those maleficar rampant across her lands. The Templars would have far better rules to follow, and they would have to be trained to see the mages exactly for what they were. There would be no holy warfare under her rule, and she certainly wouldn’t fall prey to a few blighted fools.

Lizette thinks of her future as she returns to her rooms, her head held high and nodding to those she knew to be devout Andrastians. They would have to work for her, and it would be better to have them on side before Goddard announced the news. She doubted they would have a problem with it, she had divine blood after all.

In the full-length mirror of her room she can imagine the robes of the Divine upon herself. Cast in red, gold, and white, with the power of the Maker upon her fingertips. She wouldn’t need to rule her family’s bannorn, she wouldn’t need to be heir to the Trevelyan fortunes, she wouldn’t need the town of Sarhnia. Lizette wouldn’t need them for she would already have them, who could cast aside the blessing of the Divine’s will?

For a moment the traitorous thought that perhaps this was not Goddard’s intention slips into her mind. She wills it away, Goddard couldn’t pass up the opportunity to claim Orlesian land for a Trevelyan, he wouldn’t pass up the opportunity to have a Divine Trevelyan. No matter the rituals and traditions. Divine Trevelyan, it would roll off the tongue so beautifully. And for once in her life, her brother would answer to her.

Hollis enters the room only a few short minutes after she had, dressed in brown leathers and cream silks, looking like some kind of unbroken soufflé. His cheeks are blushed with the cold weather and the heat of the fires. So unadaptable to the surroundings they often found themselves in.

“Did you know that Dalish b-bastard left Skyhold?” Hollis says, dusting off the front of his overcoat. Cursing like that, it made him nervous. An anxious stutter he hadn’t ever been able to shake from his days as a younger man.

“Oh?” She glances at him in the mirror. A Divine couldn’t be married to anyone but the Maker, she would have to forsake the vows she spoke to Hollis. There was a sliver of pain that slipped into her, Hollis had been good despite his bumbling, she thinks she would miss him when she became Divine. But those were the sacrifices needed in order to lead Thedas into the future.

“Ran off with the Warden Commander, I heard they were having an affair, my dear, an _affair_.” His voice blooms with mirth, tugging at the bottom of his overcoat, and smoothing it down once more. It rode up when he stretched his arms too far, and he was constantly shifting his doublet under his layers.

“Like father like son I suppose.” She sniffs, of course the young man would share the same inclinations as Goddard. Though she didn’t know anything of the boy’s mother, a forest dwelling elf, she can’t be much better. She had seen that Warden Commander around Skyhold, filthy, bad taste in fashion, and with those tattoos even upon his face. The thought makes her queasy.

“With this we, I mean, you, could take over the bannorn.” Hollis says, grinning, “First, he sires a bas-bastard, behind his wife’s back, and now that bastard shames him by sleeping with the Warden Commander, a married man.” He counts each incident on his fingers, thinking he was destroying his brother-by-law’s legacy with each word.

“I’ve set my sights on something larger, Hollis.” She says, nose held higher. Divine Renata the Second, or whichever name they would choose for her, Divine regardless of her name, it was only the title she wanted. “And that Cousland giant isn’t married.” Lizette mentions it as an afterthought, they were related distantly, and she knew of the separation he and that Orlesian woman had.

“He married that assassin, didn’t he, my darling?” Hollis’ bows come together in a pinch. He had heard stories of the Warden Commander taking up with the elf that had tried to kill him, an odd love story, but one that people spoke of whenever they mentioned Andrastopher.

“Did he?” Lizette halts in her motions, no longer pinching at her outfit to see if she needed to lose some weight. The robes would hide any unpleasantries, not that she had any.

“No, no, of course not.” Hollis mumbles, “silly me, I must be getting my names mixed.” He knew he wasn’t, but Lizette could be stubborn at the best of times. As much as he might love his wife, there were times when she could be immovable on certain subjects. He knew that Andrastopher Cousland had married that elf, Zever, Zanni, whatever he was called. It had been recognised in the Trevelyan family tree, and he kept an eye on that particular branch just to ensure he was still related to the Hero of Ferelden.

The link was something he spoke of often enough to bring a few customers in line. Related to the Hero of Ferelden, the man who singlehandedly saved Ferelden. Of course, he would much rather _be_ the Hero of Ferelden, or have a title to the same standard. Latching onto his wife’s coattails wasn’t something he was above, though he would deny anyone who suggested such a thing.

“Write to the tailor, I’d like to see myself in red.” She turns from the mirror, taking a seat and gesturing to the teapot. Hollis rushes to grab the tray it sits upon, and carries it to his wife, setting down opposite her and pouring them both a cup.

“Of course, my love.” He says, feeling his own smile spread at the sight of Lizette’s. Higher sights than ruling the bannorn her brother currently oversees, perhaps the Inquisition. Hollis could see her in those ceremonial robes, sitting in that golden throne in front of those stained-glass windows. He could see himself there too, but that was something he kept hidden from her sights.

The tavern had been the source of entertainment for the day. Most of it’s customers filtering out when the thrill of the execution wore off. But No One and Thom found a comfort in there, beside The Iron Bull and his Chargers. Dorian had made his excuses to leave but hadn’t actually left. Allowing the group to spend the day losing or gaining coin in the friendly sport of playing cards. No One had given up halfway through lack of coin and skill, sitting beside Thom and watching him play instead.

Rocky still cheated, there was a faint memory of being told never to gamble with a dwarf in Thom’s mind, and he hadn’t the faintest where he had heard it. People drifted in and out of the tavern, chatting and grinning, some more miserable than others. But nobody bothered the large group to one side, fuelled by ale and slightly more embarrassing stories. Krem had grumbled something about _not again_ , when Rocky started to speak of the great Dian Stonekind.

Which led to more conversations about the Warden Commander and his recruits that soured No One’s gut. He sent an iron smile to Bull when the Qunari shifted the subject expertly. Bastard wanted to poison him, fucker. No One had draped himself over the back of Thom’s chair and inhaled the peach scent he had carried all day, before kissing his scalp and wandering off to piss. He could see into the Warden Commander’s room from outside, and he shook the anger from his frame, returning inside with joy on his face.

Thom had managed to mostly break even through the games, his poker face shifting when No One’s hand found his thigh, more so when the blonde sat his feet on Thom’s lap. There were questions over Thom’s hair, even as he picked and scratched at the new style. He felt awkward not being able to stroke the looser strands back as he was used to. It was more obvious to Bull that No One had done it to him, but that fact hadn’t missed many.

They bid their goodnights a few hours after sunset, debts racked up and promises to pay them back left hanging in the air. It had grown late in the day, and the execution of the morning seemed as if it had been weeks ago. A bellyful of ale keeps them warm as they venture back to Thom’s bedchamber, the man wondering whether it would become _their_ bedchamber and not solely his.

“Is the braid annoying you?” No One whispers, hand fingering the short tail of Thom’s hair. He’d left it in overnight, and it had only just fully dried. Comments had been spoken about it, Thom had only had the one hairstyle since joining the Inquisition and almost everyone was surprised at the effort he had put into his hair on this very day. They had asked whether it had anything to do with the execution, but Thom had shrugged them all off. He couldn’t give them the truth, not without implicating No One.

“A bit, I’m just not used to it.” He shrugs. A few strands of now curling hair had been pulled from it with how Thom had scratched at it throughout the day. The whole thing felt unusual, having his hair tied back and feeling it pull at his scalp every so often. It reminded him why he had always had short hair before he met Blackwall. Bar avoiding the threat of helmet tresses, he was a whole lot less likely to be grabbed by the strands in battle.

“You don’t have to keep it in.” No One snorts, arm thrown around Thom’s shoulder as they walked. He presses a kiss to his temple, ignoring the people who move aside as they see them coming. Walking two abreast in these corridors was a bit selfish, especially when they made no motion to allow others to pass them comfortably.

“You used to do this for your daughter, I didn’t want to offend.” He admits.

“I used to do a lot for her, idiot.” No One laughs, quiet enough so that only the two of them can hear him. He scratches his fingers into the roots of Thom’s hair, wondering whether or not he needed to strip the colour from his own. Thom leans into the touch, arm settling comfortably on No One’s back. It rests under the thicker druffalo wool blanket, and the heat from his palm warms through the thin material of the shirt he had borrowed from Thom all that time ago.

“I thought you weren’t allowed to see her.” Thom says, his face pinching in confusion. “Sorry, I shouldn’t ask.” It sounds like a plea for more, and he’s about to rectify that before No One shushes him with his own words.

“No, it’s, you should ask, I mean, that’s a normal thing to do.” He stops at the bedchamber door, glancing away in thought before shrugging at the other man. Normalcy; he didn’t know if he wanted it or not. He wanted Thom, whether he spent the rest of his life fighting the sky or whether all that shit managed to settle. Thom was the constant, something to cling to when things got that slight bit too difficult.

“You’re hardly normal.” Thom laughs, swatting at No One’s lower back when they get to his room. It pulls an iron smile and a burst of laughter from him. No One had a particularly nice laugh, he thought, it was an honest laugh. He snorted occasionally, he had loud bellows of joy and a rumbling silence that only shifted his chest the slightest bit. But the sight of those iron caps; once it had been an odd thing for him to have, now it was something that he didn’t question any longer.

No One pulls him into the room when he stands in the doorway. He hears the latch close behind him and turns when the other man pushes at his shoulders. The braid is something to come out, if Thom didn’t even like it then he shouldn’t have kept it in. Though the reason behind it was something of a kindness, and No One didn’t even bother to hide the smile that held his lips. It was something endured for him, as minor as it was, it still warmed his heart like nothing else could.

“She had longer hair than you, came down to her waist, she didn’t like how it tangled in the jewels in her dresses.” No One flicks the small tie in an undefined direction, carefully untangling the grey and black lengths. “It pulled at her scalp and it got in her eyes and mouth when it was windy.” He leans in to kiss at the back of his neck, pressing himself closer, the tips of his toes clicking against the back of Thom’s boots.

“I can imagine.” Thom murmurs, head inclining away from No One’s lips to give him more room to explore.

“She liked to have flowers entwined in it, I used to thread them in, she said it kept Mathys away because he was afraid of bees.” He can’t help the chuckle that crept into his voice, remembering how Adeline asked for specific flowers to attract specific insects. “She tried to braid mine but it was too short, my brother, the one who couldn’t write properly, his hair was long enough. Didn’t mean he let her do it.”

“Isn’t that the job of an uncle?” Thom says, hand pulling through the finally free strands of his hair. Softer now from the oil that No One had applied to it last night, and also curlier, much curlier.

“It suits you.” No One says, pinching his lips between his teeth to stem the grin. He tries to hide his laughter behind his hand, but there’s little he can do to disguise himself when Thom looks over. It reminded him of nobility, though matched with the slightly muddy overcoat that had seen better days and a beard that could do with another trim, it looked-

“Awful, I look bloody awful.” Thom leans into the mirror, he looks ungodly like an Orlesian. He swats at No One when he joins him by the vanity and tries to push it into a more suitable style, laughing and shoving at each other, trying desperately not the stumble over the books he has left everywhere.

Thom finds a refuge on the opposite side of the bed, allowing No One to surrender his slightly breathless assault and sit upon the vanity stool. His hair did need to be recoloured, his moustache looked awful with blackened roots and blonde lengths. Grey hadn’t yet made an appearance, and that’s the only saving grace he seems to have in that department. His hand slips through his own hair, it would be long enough for Adeline to braid now; not that he could imagine she’d want to.

“I could be an uncle.” He whispered. Armel or Luci could have married and had children of their own. They’d both be in their late thirties, it wouldn’t be too much of a stretch to imagine they had settled down with someone and started their own family; absent of their uncle just as they had been. “I could be a _grandfather_.” The words barely fall audible from his lungs.

Adeline could have married, she could have had children, he knew these things were possible. Yet, he hadn’t considered exactly what that meant for him. Not properly. He could have a grandchild at this very moment, nieces and nephews, sisters-by-law, a son-by-law. Abandoning his name; for the first time in a long time it brings a stab of loneliness to his gut.

No One turns from the mirror, glancing to Thom, who’s pulling off his boots, setting them down beside the bed. Not close enough to cause disruption if he needed to waken and flee quickly, but near so that he might slip them on if he had to. It’s standard soldiers training, and the ones who couldn’t stick to that routine only hindered themselves.

“You look old enough.” Thom laughs, he doesn’t look over, fiddling with the lace of his overcoat and pulling it off his shoulders. He stifles a yawn in his sleeve, folding his coat and setting it on top of his boots.

“I’m younger than you.” No One huffs at the insult, now was not the time to think of Adeline, nor her sons and daughters, if she had any at this moment.

“Aye, grandpapa.” He laughs, turning to face him with a grin hidden under his beard. “See to it your hips don’t shatter on the way over here.” Thom pats the bed beside him, throwing the covers to the end, beaming with eyebrows raised.

“I’ll shatter your hips, Thom Rainier.” No One says, pulling the bottle of oil he had stored in the vanity into his hand. Now was the time to think of Thom, and only Thom. He slowly walks the short distance between them, dropping his clothes wherever they wanted to land, and crawling onto the bed. There was still an issue with taking off his breeches. The first time had been done with anger, fear, and even though he knew Thom had no problem with the malformation upon his leg, it still bothered him.

“Oh?” He bites his tongue, letting No One’s hand guide his thighs open.

“Hm, you bathed last night, we have oil, I have fingers.” His palm glides down the fabric of Thom’s breeches, curling around his knee before pushing up towards his cock. The slightest grace of pressure, then tugging the undershirt from under the band of his breeches, finding the warmth of Thom’s naked belly under his fingertips.

“I do like a good set of fingers.” Thom breathes, licking his lips when No One’s face is only an inch from his own. He is kissed lightly, the same pressure that had barely touched his cock.

“Have a word with your arse, my fingers and I will be making acquaintance with it soon enough.” No One grins as he pulls back. The bottle hits Thom in the chest, and he catches it cleanly between both of his hands. He looks up from the small thing, having read the printed Free Marcher scripture and not bothering with the Trade translation. Expensive oil, popular amongst women apparently, though he has no idea whether or not No One knew that.

It’s not the first question that slips into Thom’s mind. Rather that, he had no idea where the blonde would have gotten it from, nor why. He knew the Orlesians had vast amounts of oil that was far better than this kind of thing, even some of the less luxurious bottles had a nicer quality to them. If he was going to buy anything of the sort he wouldn’t waste coin on something that wasn’t worth it.

“Recognise it?” No One says, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. Bloody iron, quite literally, he hopes Thom won’t be able to taste the wounds in his mouth. The iron caps are left on the chest beside the bed, and he runs his tongue around his mouth, drinking the lyrium stains from them.

“Did you put this in my hair?” Thom holds the open bottle to his nose, and then the curly strands of his own hair. They have the same scent, putting aside that his hair smells heavily of the winds outside, it’s fruity almost. He’s not exactly an expert on these things, oil was oil most of the time.

“I did,” He laughs, “now, imagine how soft all those little hairs around your arse are going to be.” No One presses his lips to Thom’s once again, pulling him down upon himself, fingers straying in his greying hair. He feels a protest upon his mouth, and the struggle to recork a bottle so as not to spill anything.

They start slow at first, with gentle fingers as if exploring for the first time, and careful pressure and tentative movements. No One’s fingers slipping through the hairs that cover Thom’s gut and chest, caressing around the width of his waist and cupping under his shoulder blades to bring him closer. His heels nudge the other man’s hips closer, legs brought up to encase Thom’s sides. The first pricks of arousal start to root inside of him, under the welcoming and addictive warmth that was Thom Rainer.

Fists rest either side of No One’s head, keeping the man above him balanced. He can feel Thom’s hips rolling slightly, the buckle of his belt nudging against his cock. It’s not particularly pleasant, the straight edges pressing into the softer skin of his sex. No One pulls at it, loosening the leather until he can pull the ties of Thom’s breeches open. There’s an infectious laughter upon his lips, it kisses down his throat, tongue wet against the hollows that his collarbone created.

Thom shuffles his breeches down to his knees, leaving them at the point where he couldn’t push any further, and dropping heavier onto No One. No One’s heels dig into the thin material of his underthings, trying to drag them down unsuccessfully until Thom assists in the matter. This fabric too is bunched around his knees, trapping him there, but not so awfully that it’s urgent. Thom focuses on untying the knot of the other man’s breeches, one hand roaming over the grooves in his thigh.

He can feel them even through the fabric, and he wonders why he hasn’t ever noticed them before. The muscles in No One’s thigh tense when the fingers splay into each individual scar. But the moment is fleeting, the panic and unease washed away when those offending fingers curl up over his protruding hip bones and over the small swell of his gut. It felt incredibly nice to know it was thicker with fat and not distended with starvation.

Thom’s laughter rumbles over both of them when he tries to pull No One’s breeches off, only to find his own betraying his balance. Infectious once more. No One pushes Thom off of him, flipping them over with a skill and rolling off so that they may both strip. Clothes abandoned, Thom no longer found the desire to fold them neatly, tossing them with as much vigour as the other man had.

It’s a comforting pace to be found, when No One climbs into the other man’s lap, arms curling atop the width of his shoulders. Their lips meet, greedily, and for No One’s hope, Thom doesn’t protest if he does sense blood in his mouth. They both taste of ale, and the richer meat stew that Cabot had served. Neither of them had made any choice to leave the tavern for most of the day, cards and dice and drinking ate away at their hours until the sun had set. No One feels a bubble of laughter in his chest, it was the most normal day he’d had in years.

Thom’s hand comes to grip both of their cocks, cupping their heads together, pushing clumsily at their foreskins. No One’s hips roll to give them both some friction, thrusting into Thom’s loosened fist. The sword worn hands and the callouses they bear drag pleasantly across him, and the hand that isn’t on his cock travels from his knee to his upper back, cleaner nails scratching as they move. It leaves a trail of prickles upon his paler skin, and he arches into the palm when it presses against his chest.

No One’s grunt is obvious enough, his own hand laying on Thom’s to keep the pressure on him. He thumbs at the swell of his nipple, the nail catching the skin; the feeling grows on No One, the sting of pain becoming more welcoming each time. It’s replaced with Thom’s mouth, tongue lavishing it with wet strokes, teeth replacing the bite of his nails. No One has to stand on his knees, feet hooked over the edge of the bed, clutching at the back of the other man’s head to keep him there. He’s so much better with his mouth than his hands.

An arm wraps around his waist, his other hand takes No One’s other nipple between his fingers. He pinches it trying to mimic the motions of his mouth. No One twists at his waist, pushing closer to his mouth, and Thom’s hand falls loosely against his hip. Thom feels the damp head of No One’s cock bumping against his chest, finding pleasure in the friction of his chest hair.

“You want to lay at the head?” No One breathes, cradling Thom’s head and settling back on his lap. He glances to the bed sheets, trying to find the abandoned oil. It takes a moment, pushing at the blankets, and climbing off of Thom to shove at him carefully. He licks his lips as Thom moves, watching the shift of his muscles and the weight he carries. No One didn’t know what he’d done to deserve such a man, but whatever it was, he was reaping the benefits of such a thing with greed unbound.

He slaps Thom’s arse as he turns to sit amongst the piled pillows, earning a laugh from the other man as he settles. No One watches for a moment, staring at Thom’s hand lain upon his cock, stroking with the barest hint of pressure.

“On your front, mon chéri.” No One pours the oil into his palm, feeling the oddest desire to taste the shining liquid, peaches, it smelt like. “Your knees.” He adds, warming the oil over his fingers. Thom’s slight hitch in breath doesn’t go unnoticed. He tries to disguise it with a heavy swallow, and the clearing of his throat, but the knowledge is already pinned to the front of No One’s mind.

The need to ask him about it is tempting, but he pushes that down for another night. Tonight, right now, would be the first time he could be inside of him, and his fingers shake with eager anticipation. Thom recognises No One’s lips against the tip of his spine, and his lengthy fingers spreading the valley between his arse cheeks. A question is whispered against his back, permission to continue is granted, and the slickness of fingertips graced with oil lines his arse.

No One presses in slowly with one finger, mumbling in Orlesian in between the other man’s shoulder blades. He feels the groan more than he hears it, reverberating through Thom’s chest, breathing heavy through his nose. The finger is pulled out slowly, his thumb pressing against the skin just above his entrance, and pressed back in with Thom’s sigh.

He doesn’t need coaxing into it, but No One takes it leisurely regardless. Twisting that sole finger and curling it slightly, pressing in with a wet second when Thom’s moan hitches a slight bit higher. No One bites his tongue when the other man’s hips roll, following his fingers when they glance over that one spot. It spikes both of their arousals, and No One begins to thrust his fingers faster, trying to press in deeper. His hips follow the motion, holding his hand in front of his own sex, acting as if he was thrusting into Thom with his cock.

Thom reaches back when the fingers slip out of him, dragging down the crevice of his arse and cupping his bollocks from behind. He moans into that, resting his forehead on the pillows beneath him and threading his own hands into his hair, tugging slightly to relieve some pleasure.

“I’m,” No One begins breathing heavily from the mere sight of Thom rutting on his hand when his fingers are pressed back inside. He wipes oil across the head of his cock generously, biting his cheek to restrain himself from wanking. The need to feel Thom’s arse around his cock was overbearing and he wasn’t going to ruin that with the familiarity of his own hand.

“Yes.” Thom groans, shifting his hips so his stance is just that bit wider. His cock hangs heavy between his legs, neglected so far. But he could feel the pleasure building inside of him, he’d have to take it in his own hand if No One did not.

He can feel the head of the other man’s cock against his arse, the slight damp to his hands of sweat and oil. No One’s moan is staggered, his fingers digging into Thom’s flanks, persistent in his movement with a strained breath. He listens carefully for any protest from the man beneath him, leaning over him to pepper his shoulders with damp kisses.

Thom is so tight, so beautifully, brilliantly, tight. No One recognises in that moment that he could stay in this bliss for hours if his cock would let him. He pulls back a fraction, staring down at how they join, his hands resting over Thom’s arse and pulling his cheeks apart. A sight so beautiful he’d never seen.

With a grunt of protest, he pushes forward, sliding back inside of Thom. Trying to be as tasteful as he can in his movements. It’s a battle he’s losing to himself, fingers leaving little white patches from where they grip too tightly.

“Thom.” He hisses, his forehead flush against the other man’s back. Wet kisses are given, tongue lathing against his skin, tasting the sweat that has found purchase upon him.

“ _Yes_.” Thom moans, his drawling word cut short when No One’s pace picks up. The wet slap of skin on skin grows as their movements become more fervent, it sounds so sordid, but it’s a symphony to their ears. He wants to reach around Thom’s gut, to grab at the swell of his cock, but the grip of his fingers is too tight, he can’t imagine giving any pleasure with his fists with such tension in his arms.

No One lets his teeth drag across Thom’s upper back, biting at the supple flesh there, just harsh enough to watch his skin bloom red. His ears pound with his own blood, but he can hear the repetitive grunts falling from the other man’s mouth, muffled by the pillow that soaks them up greedily. No One reaches up, tangling his fingers in Thom’s hair and pulling so his voice is no longer muffled. It’s delectable when it’s louder, the panting grunts and rushed breath, arousal beginning to burn brightly within both of them.

“Touch yourself, Thom, mon chéri, touch yourself.” He breathes, moaning when he sees Thom’s hand release the pillows and grab at his own cock. No One feels stupid for not having him on his back, where he would be able to see something other than the flexing of Thom’s triceps as he fucks his own hand. “Perfect, perfect.” He whispers.

Thom’s stuttered laughter echoes in his ribcage, pressed against No One’s mouth, and the blonde can’t help but mimic him. His movements grow rapid, rushed, without any sense of rhythm. Heat coils within him, his muscles tensing almost uncomfortably as he tries to outlast the other man. No One pulls out quickly, one hand curling around his own cock to tug at himself, and the other pushing fingers into Thom with a similar pace as to what his cock had done.

His orgasm falls upon him with a shout, coming into his own hand and across the back of one of Thom’s thighs. Thom arches forward, his shoulders bunching as his hips thrust onto No One’s fingers and into his own fist. The sound of the blonde coming, the heat he pours across his thigh, it brings Thom to the edge, pushing him over with the sensation of those lengthy fingers inside of him.

Thom grunts at No One’s continued motions, his arse over sensitised as he rolls onto his side; avoiding the wet patch he had just left, and offering No One a idyllic smile. The blonde’s chest heaves rapidly, his mouth open and his eyes half closed. Pure bliss, Thom imagines, offering and hand for him to take. No One collapses as best he can into Thom’s side and away from the evidence of their most recent exertion.

No One licks his lips, pushing his face into the curve of Thom’s neck, inhaling deeply the smell of peaches and sex. They’ve slotted together neatly, even if they can feel themselves beginning to stick together uncomfortably with heat. Minutes is all they can endure before he pushes himself up with shaking arms, his thighs twitching as he stands from the bed and slips into the bathing chamber.

He pisses quickly, holding his cock with one hand and rummaging for a dry towel with the other. A shake, the towel dipped in the bathwater and wrung, and he re-enters the bedchamber. Thom watches him as he approaches, smiling dumbly when No One sits beside him. The towel is gently wiped over the mess that stained Thom’s thigh, then folded so that Thom can clean the oil from his arse cheeks. It’s used a third time to wipe away the oil from No One’s cock, biting his cheek when stinging pleasure burns in him; and then thrown into the pile for washing.

Thom’s yawn breaks through the idyllic silence. As late as it was, it wasn’t yet tomorrow, but the need to rest was curling in his chest. No One tugs at the sheets they’re on, pulling at them until Thom shifts and the majority of the mess can be tossed towards the damp towel. Giving them a slightly cleaner bed to sleep on.

He settles on his front, chewing his lips with a joy hidden in his smile when No One drapes blankets over their waists. The blonde doesn’t slip back into his breeches, and it’s a small thing to bring him a slither of hope. No One would make peace with his scars, and Thom would be there to aid him. The reasons how and why and what didn’t matter, only the man’s own comfort did.

No One draws mindlessly on the expanse of Thom’s back with his finger. Circling the odd freckle, poking the bitemark he had left. Oddly put out that Thom didn’t seem that ticklish. He watches Thom as he starts to fall asleep, the little murmuring whispers he began to mumble at No One’s ministrations. It’s as if the gentle caress is drawing him into his sleep. His eyes opening whenever he pulls his fingers away.

Thom inhales deeply to try and keep himself awake, but it falters into another yawn, and he watches as the fatigue he’s experiencing doesn’t affect No One in the slightest. The man seems concerned or something like it, but the need to sleep is overwhelming, and he can’t make his lips form the words he wants to say.

“I hate executions.” No One whispers, fingers scrunching at the roots of his hair, the bottom of his palms digging into his eyes. He should be tired, but as the days wear on it becomes apparent that it’s fear that keeps him awake.

“Hm?” Thom mumbles, he was half asleep, slipping into the land of much nicer dreams than No One could have. He yawns as he pushes himself up, leaning his heavy head into his palms, he must have fallen asleep for a few hours, dawn was breaking upon them. The strength to keep himself upright entirely faded under the weight of fatigue.

“Reminds me of the alienage.” He says, glancing at the ceiling, his eyes flickering to Thom when the man truly tries to waken. He scrubs at his face, his calloused palms scuffing his beard and pulling at his skin. Another yawn breaks through his lips, and he turns over onto his side, pushed up with an elbow to lean on. He has a scar in the crux of his armpit, a white line that sings of a dagger slipping through his defences. No One reaches out to let his fingers drag across it, pushing at the hair that grows there.

“No One, you don’t have to tell me.” Thom whispers, his mouth dry and his voice croaking. It breaks the glaze that had settled over his eyes, and he blinks to bring himself back. Rolling onto his side, huffing, and then rolling onto his front.

“No, I, I want to.” He says, gesturing with his hands for the things his mouth cannot say. “If you’ll listen, it’s hardly the best pillow talk.” A laugh slips from his lungs, and it’s something Thom has started to understand. It’s the beginning of a jest, an easy turning point in conversation, something so that No One has a reason not to say exactly what he wants to say. But it’s something he does to defend himself, something that disregards the blame on himself. If Thom forces him to tell him then it’s not No One’s fault. It’s the same thing children do when they’re bursting to tell a secret but know they’re not meant to.

“I’m here.” Thom grabs at his hand, those fingers that had so recently been inside of him, bringing it to his lips and kissing his knuckles. It takes a moment before No One can pull himself together enough, trying his best to keep his words true to his thoughts. But with the way that Thom looks at him, it scrambles his thoughts, and practiced eloquence is decimated.

“That man, he wasn’t afraid, I think that’s what unnerved me, he saw me hesitate and, the kind of man I was back then, I couldn’t let him live after that.” No One lets the words tumble out, unjudged and unflinching. He knows without any doubt that he is entirely safe with Thom beside him. “But I realised later that he probably was afraid, he just couldn’t show it, not with his son watching.” No One’s voice wavers off, there was shame in killing that elf as he had done, but it was the son who brought him so much more guilt.

“You made mistakes.”

“I imagined over and over what it would be like to have my daughter watching me being beheaded by some entitled egotistical brat with a gilded sword. I don’t think I would have been half as brave as him.” No One glances down at his own hands. Things he knew could play such beautiful symphonies if not for the blood that drenches them. His fingers are too long, too thin, nails too short, knuckles too large, short palms, and a finger that never quite healed properly when it broke. “He was a better man than me, but I never got the chance to see that, neither did his son.”

“You don’t know that, you’re a good man.” Thom says, taking the hands in his own. No One looks as if he means to protest it, but Thom speaks quickly, squeezing No One’s fingers. “Maybe you weren’t back then, maybe you were an entitled egotistical brat, most Orlesians are. But you’re not the same man anymore.”

“You’re good at this, consoling.” No One whispers, clearing his throat for the hairs that seem to grow inside. “And, Maker as my witness, I don’t always get like this after sex.” He says it with mirth, but it’s not something to avoid a question, it’s a true feeling echoing up from his lungs. Joyful, evident enough on his face. Not through his smile, but in the corners of his eyes, the way the cross of the scar upon his left cheekbone wrinkles with his age.

“That’s a shame, I thought it was rather nice.” Thom lets the other man’s hands fall from his grip, and he turns over onto his front, finally mimicking No One’s position.

“Being maudlin?” He laughs with exasperation.

“Telling me about you.”

“You,” No One hangs his head, hiding the smile that blooms over his features, “you, Thom Rainier, are something else. Odd, charming, oddly charming, the list goes on.” He punctuates each word with his fingers, stepping down Thom’s back as if they walked backwards with a destination in mind.

“I always thought myself more odd than charming.” He finds himself pushing against the fingers, his frame twisting as they stepped closer to the edge of the blankets.

“Hardly normal at any rate.” No One whispers, voice lower, dropping once more into an Orlesian lilt with arousal.

“Idiot." Thom laughs, slapping him across the arm with glee. He looks as if he wants to settle back into the sleep that was robbed from him before, but No One’s hand slips under the covers, palm curved against the swell of Thom’s arse.

His fingers caress it for a moment, travelling the length from where it meets his back to where it meets his thigh. Pushing at Thom’s leg gently until he shifts it just enough for No One’s hand to slip between them. A thumb finds his entrance, pressing against it until it’s hidden to the first knuckle. Fingers stretched to nudge against the back of Thom’s bollocks, nails scratching at the sliver of skin that separates them.

No One pulls away for a moment, and Thom’s voiced disproval is hushed with a short breath of laughter. He situates himself on his side, it gives him a better angle, and it doesn’t suffocate his own cock under his weight. Oil is grabbed, only a small amount is wet upon his fingers, it still smells like Thom’s hair, like peaches, and the comparison is a strange one. Though it’s ignored this time. With a pillow shoved under his hips and his cock lifted so that it lies flat against his belly, he lets No One’s fingers enter between his thighs once more.

One inside easily, slick and wet, and it’s sudden intrusion spikes arousal in Thom’s gut. It’s been a while since he’s had anything up his arse, and twice in one night has left him that slight bit more sensitive to it. It doesn’t stop him from angling his hips so the tips of his fingers press into that certain spot.

“There?” No One whispers, watching how Thom’s brows twitch towards each other for a fraction of a second, and his lips open just enough to let out the barest hint of breath. Thom hums an approval, rolling his hips so that his hardening cock drags against the pillow. No One curls his fingers, pressing just that bit harder. He wishes he hadn’t lain on his side for the interest his own cock is showing in Thom’s display.

He twists awkwardly, the movement pushing his fingers in deeper just a fraction, and grinning when Thom’s fingers twitch in the bedsheets. No One shuffles closer with little grace, pressing himself against the other man, huffing with delight when Thom’s hand curls around his cock. It feels different with the angle; his hand is upside down compared to what he’s used to. But the pressure it puts on the head of his sex is so much better this way.

Thom opens his eyes, glancing at No One when he can feel the puff of his breath across his face. The left half of his face is submerged into the plushness of his pillow, propped up by his arm, and it hides the scars. He’s reminded of his nobility, debauched nobility, Maker, but he’s handsome. They try to push closer so that their lips may meet, but it leaves them with laughter, the angle is too twisted to get into such a thing.

“On your back.” No One whispers, fingers pulling out of Thom and pushing at his shoulders. He rolls without complaint, and No One decides that he does have a thing for taking orders, legs separating so that the other man might fit between them. “Fingers or…” He whispers, kissing his way into the dip of Thom’s collarbone.

“Fingers,” Thom huffs, “fingers, you’re better with your fingers.” No One pushes Thom’s thighs apart, two fingers press against him again, slipping inside with oil. He curls and thrusts them slightly, waiting for the pinch in Thom’s brows, and presses hard. Knuckles heavy against him, forceful, unrelenting in their assault. No One’s other hand curls around Thom’s cock, giving him something to thrust into when his hips start to roll with the pleasure.

No One’s sex is abandoned for the moment, instead he bites his tongue and watches Thom’s pleasure in place of his own. He drags his fingers across Thom’s prostate with every thrust he makes, or tries to, it’s difficult to tell whether it’s the hand on his cock or the hand up his arse that makes him moan like that. He’s not of a mind to stop either.

Thom can’t reach No One’s cock from the angle, his fingertips brush against his forearm, tickling the dark hairs that grow there. He grunts as best he can, pushing the other man’s hand away from his cock and shoving it towards his own. For a moment No One offers a raised brow, hand across Thom’s hip unsure of what he means. Thom takes his own cock in hand, twisting and tugging at it with a familiarity and nodding for No One to do the same to himself.

He pushes himself up with one arm, it changes the drive of everything, and pulls No One’s two fingers just that bit deeper. His moan would echo in the right kind of room, but it washes over both of them with a distinct pleasure. They watch each other, knowing that now it would be easier to take the other in hand, but deciding that this was already perfect.

The sounds that fill the room are clear enough to anyone, and loud enough to annoy Thom’s neighbours for the second time that night, but it’s something they don’t care for. Not when their pleasure starts to boil within them. Their teeth clack together when No One forces a kiss upon them, delicious, even if it came with a sting of pain. He tastes of slightly fouled breath and that familiar iron trace; Thom hadn’t seen him place his teeth back in.

There’s little time before Thom’s hand twists in the bedsheets, gripping them mercilessly and arching into his second orgasm, mouth open, choking on his own pleasure. He knows his face is a red as No One’s is, and his eyes stagger to close when No One comes as well, squeezing at his cock and continuing to thrust his fingers inside of him with little rhythm.

“Beautiful,” No One whispers, watching him spend himself across the curve of his gut, “divine.” His fingers are pulled out carefully, wary of the grunts and twitches Thom offers him, and press into the wetness that lines him. He kisses him with more grace this time, ignoring the mess that stains their bellies and their hands. No One is wary not to tangle his fingers in Thom’s hair despite how he wants to, and wraps his arms around his shoulders, clambering awkwardly on top of him.

“You’re not so bad yourself.” He huffs, his voice barely there for his staggering breaths. Thom makes sure that when his hands drag the length of No One’s legs, that he avoids the valleys in his thigh this time, and grabs at his waist to pull him closer.

“I’m an organist.” No One says, cupping his own softening cock to protect it from too much pressure so soon after his climax.

“What?” Thom breathes, brows twitching now in confusion and not pleasure.

“The fingers,” he whispers, as if that was supposed to explain everything, “I used to play the organ.” Thom laughs at him burying his head into the crux of No One’s neck, grinning with shaking shoulders. The blonde laughs with him, it doesn’t make sense to him either, and he remains unsure of why he felt the need to highlight such a thing anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Mon cheri." : Darling.


	44. A Father, A Liar

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: This chapter contains details of a past suicide.

Bull had given her a recipe written in Andrastopher Cousland’s own scripture. Neat and elegant, blocked trade letters in black ink, it belied his status as a nobleman with the cleanliness of it all. But she saw something else in the writing; no ink used in excess, each letter took up only the space it needed, no smudges, no corrections. Leliana could see the Qunari in him as much as the Highever nobleman. She leant back in her chair with a sigh, perhaps it was her imagination, and she was trying to scold herself for not recognising his conversion earlier.

It was poison, supposedly, but it had too many helpful elements in it to be deadly enough to kill somebody. A torturer’s poison, she wonders, but ghoul’s beard induced confusion, and in high enough doses could knock someone unconscious; entirely useless for extracting information. Muscle relaxations, memory loss, reducing the senses, this simply couldn’t be a torturer’s brew. But there were simpler ways of getting such attributes. Perhaps a poison for stealing false intimacies of those unaware. The thought makes her feel ill.

She stares at the copy of the recipe, the original already returned to The Iron Bull so he might give it to Cousland under No One’s instruction. Once she had assumed they were working together, Andrastopher as his controlling hand, forcing him to complete the assassinations that he hadn’t yet done. Learning that the Warden Commander was Tallis, it only added to that first theory. But after this, after Bull’s recounts of No One’s fury at finding out that it was poison, they couldn’t have been working together. This wasn’t exactly comforting news. One united front had been abolished, but two separate hands had risen in its place.

It also left the reason for No One being here entirely open-ended. He had a reason to stay, he and Thom’s relationship had bloomed over the past months, though why he had arrived here in the first place. It couldn’t have been to chase Thom as a lover after their shared cell in Val Royeaux. Though, she reminds herself, she had no idea what kind of man No One is, and he might just be the kind to follow a man to the ends of Thedas if his heart warranted such things.

She had heard some enlightening news just the other day from the assassin’s own mouth. She would have had more if Dorian hadn’t interrupted them, though it was likely all three of them had no idea she had been listening. Leliana had access to those who had knowledge of the fifth blight, a lot of information came from King Alistair; a man who held no love for his fellow Grey Warden. The slaughter of Clan Maelarith was one of them, and she had seen that name written in ink, and had a young elven man asking her to keep it strictly in the records and nothing else. It brought a lot of questions to mind.

She poked and prodded at Caldwell’s intentions, why he didn’t want to keep his given name of Geldwyl. It became very clear he had left them before the blight, and hadn’t had any news of the Grey Warden who felled them. Though, how and why No One had come across such information was bizarre. How Andrastopher had figured out Caldwell, a messenger who had never revealed his name, was a Maelarith was something odd as well. It only pointed to the fact that either she had something of a traitor in her midst, or Andrastopher had been digging without being caught. Neither good theories.

Something of that conversation had struck something in her. Leliana knew, from Bull’s information, that No One could speak Dalish; his sympathy for the elves wouldn’t be too hard to explain away. But the reason why, it was something she couldn’t figure out. Not for lack of theories, but it was proving them to be true which eluded her. An Orlesian nobleman, a sister named Adeline, sympathy for the elves, and an interest in Dalish languages, some kind of relationship to the Warden Commander. There was a link in there, but she couldn’t find it. Not yet, at least.

She had done her best to make a transcript of that conversation, figuring that she may need to recall it later. One thing that stuck out to her, was the clear amicability between No One and Caldwell. And, she thought with a smile hidden behind stony features, as No One was an enemy of the Inquisition, separating him from his allies could only benefit them.

Leliana rereads the recipe again, thinking through her mental catalogue of all the poisons she had been acquainted with in her life. It reminds her of an Antivan Crow concoction, but it was as if the antidote had been brewed within. As if it wasn’t meant to wear off, but after several hours the antidote would overpower the poison and would awaken the victim. Feeling relaxed, without memory of the last few hours, they would awaken, just as if-

“They were sleeping.” She whispers, forgetting herself momentarily. Ingredients and theories slotting into place. A sleeping draught, but, to this extent. It was powerful and incredibly risky, even one step wrong and it could cause serious issues or even a fatality within whoever drank it.

“Lady Leliana?” A scout says, tending to the crows, making sure they’re well exercised and ready for their journeys. Her eyebrow raised as she looks over, the crows weren’t sleeping, wondering at her boss’ sudden hiss.

“It is nothing.” Leliana waves her off, she would have to speak to Valdis about this, to see what she thought about it. New poisons were created almost daily, at varying levels of potency, and this one was something unfamiliar even to her. Valdis, however, kept her fingers in many specific pies, it was rare that a new poison should escape her notice. She had been nothing but benefit to her in the Inquisition, both in that and beyond.

Whilst Valdis much preferred poisons over more beneficial tinctures, she wasn’t averse to creating whatever brews that Leliana requested of her. The apothecary had a skill for crafting such items and knew the importance of following recipes down to the most miniscule detail, almost irritatingly so. Regardless of her personality, it was her skilled hands that the spymaster was most interested in.

It had been months prior to this day, after Leliana had managed to track down a young woman named Clara, that Valdis had truly proved her worth once more. Weeks had been spent trying to find her location, she knew it would be easier to find her than to try and track down the Champion of Kirkwall once more for information. And such information that she had provided. The cure to lycanthropy; Clara’s original trials had been a success to some degree. Of course, the man she had cured had all the knowledge of what he had done, it left him devastated and unlike his old self. She had also mentioned a weakness that ravaged him, a constant chill, a lingering desire for rawer meats. His curse had been cured, but nobody could claim whether it had been for the better or not.

Still, she had passed on the information knowing that she hadn’t ever really had the means nor the coin necessary to collect such ingredients, let alone brew it again without making mistakes. The Inquisition however had both of those by the masses. Goddard had ordered the creation of the concoction soon after Varric had remembered that particular part in the Champion’s Tale, Cassandra had been furious when she had found out that the dwarf still kept things from them, and he stood by the decision even after Andrastopher had claimed it to be a shapeshifter. There was something of a wolf on the mountainside, and they wouldn’t be caught unawares if they could avoid it.

The cure had been a remarkably difficult thing to make. Leliana had been just a few minutes away from ordering Clara to be relocated to Skyhold so that she might make it herself before Valdis had finished it. Currently, they had one vial, enough to cure only one person of the curse. It was all they needed, they only had one werewolf attacking them; and if the beast was uncooperative, then they would suffer their curse for the rest of their days.

Leliana had taken into account that someone else might need the cure for themselves, should they be bitten and left alive after such an attack. But this held to be the sole reason why she hadn’t told anyone but the Inquisitor and his advisors about the completion of the brew. Goddard hadn’t been happy when she had suggested such a thing, but she had talked him around, albeit slowly, to the idea of a worthy sacrifice in order to obtain the conviction and judgement of that beast that they needed.

She had pointedly said that if such things could come to pass, someone in Skyhold being a victim of a werewolf attack, then it could easily be one of them. The Inquisitor, his family, some of his closest companions. Nobody knew who the werewolf would attack next, and it would be wise to save the cure for someone who had a high status, especially if it were the Herald himself. Goddard hadn’t been particularly thrilled at that either but had bitten his tongue and kept his thoughts to himself.

Leliana secures the folded copy into a pouch on her belt and ensures all documents that required a level of discretion were secured and hidden away, before taking leave of her crook. She wanted Scout Caldwell watched, and she knew just the woman for the job.

Thom wakes to the sound of water sloshing in his bathing chamber, it reminds him of his full bladder, and that the chamber pot is unfortunately under the other side of the bed. He scrubs his eyes to rid them of sleep turns to what he assumes is No One walking through the room, only to see blonde hair upon a young maid, cradling two empty buckets in her arms. Suddenly, he feels rather exposed. She offers him a courtesy as she leaves, and Thom’s embarrassment crawls up his spine when he waves at her. Idiot, he thinks, but he has done many more things that were far above humiliating.

The chamber pot is grabbed and he doesn’t even stand to piss, not when he’s only been awake for a few minutes. His hips ache slightly, and he hums at the memories of last night. He lies back, almost hungover with pleasure, wondering if he could get a few more minutes before No One finished with the bath. Thom needs one himself, not only to wash whatever lingers from last night, but to wet his hair to rid it of the untameable curls that the braid had given him.

Still, he wouldn’t say he’d change any of it, and it wasn’t as if anyone but No One had seen him with such curling lengths. A tickle of laughter spills from his lungs, and he strokes back his hair with a relatively clean hand. It remains in tangles, slightly plagued by a natural sheen, and his hand comes clean with a few broken strands in his palm. No One had threaded his fingers through it last night, Maker, they hadn’t exactly tried hard to keep their intimacies to themselves.

“Finally.” No One says, letting the bathing chamber door swing open behind him with a push of his hips, grinning at the other man as he drops in a few heating runes. He’s in only his breeches, damp hair pulled atop his hair in something of a bun. Thom can see patches of reddened skin, beard rash, he knows the sight of it, and a particular bloom of bruises around one half of his chest.

No One doesn’t seem the slightest bit bothered about the distortion of skin colour, only scratching at some of the sorer skin, wandering the room to grab a mug of water for Thom to drink from. It would be a few minutes before the water was heated enough for a hot bath. Thom drinks from it greedily, his throat and mouth dry, and accepts the kiss that follows it.

“Morning.” He grumbles. Licking his lips as No One stays but an inch away. The man sits on the edge of the bed, beside Thom’s bent knees, leaning forward on one hand. Thom has half a mind to bring him back under the sheets and divulge him of his breeches. Fumbling in the morning, it was practically a Marcher’s prerogative.

“Midday, more like,” He whispers, pressing another kiss to Thom’s slightly chapped lips. “I thought you’d like a bath after last night.” No One glances over the other man’s frame, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. His fingers walk the length of Thom’s shin, cupping the curve of his knee.

“There was bathwater from the day before yesterday.” He murmurs, grabbing No One’s hand in his own, nails scraping down the back of his protruding knuckles.

“I thought you’d like a _fresh_ bath after last night,” No One says, “considering I used the old water earlier.” A slight laugh bubbles from him, he had done it out of kindness, but there were his own selfish reasons for doing it as well. Not that anyone could begrudge him a bath, for he bathed more often that he had done when he first arrived in Skyhold. More than he had done in years. He felt almost pampered. Though who wouldn’t with Thom at their side?

“I’ve bathed downstream before.” Thom whispers, nudging himself that slight bit closer.

“But this is the Inquisition, and you, are Ser Thom Rainier,” He shifts himself closer, laughter upon his lips. No One reaches out, balancing himself on Thom’s knee, tangling still curly strands of dark hair in his fingers. “And Ser Thom Rainier has long, black, peachy, hair, not to be ruined by my awful, awful, hair colouring paste.” No One pulls back with a sigh filling his chest, a smile almost permanent on his lips.

“Ah.” Thom hums, shrugging and adding “I think I’d look good blonde.” He stands, popping his bones until they crack, and sighing at the release it provides to his back. Age was a bloody curse. The top blanket is held about his waist, bunched in place by one fist; his other hand slapping away No One’s grabbing fingers.

“How ever would they tell us apart?” He laughs, leaning back on his palms, watching how Thom’s back shifted and stretched when he reaches to scratch his opposite shoulder. He can feel a sting in his torso as he does it, and he has a strong memory of No One kissing and biting into the width of his upper back last night. Good memories, he thinks, repeatable memories, he hopes.

No One busies himself with stripping the bed, tugging at the sheets and covers until anything that had been messed, and balling it up for someone else to wash. The Inquisition had a brilliant set of working servants who tended fires, cleaned rooms, and emptied chamber pots. He hoped they treated and paid them all well.

In his youth he hadn’t been kind to the servants in the Baroulx estates. More fool him, none of them would have grieved for him, they would have celebrated his loss, and not in the traditional Orlesian fashion. It’s a saddening thought, how few who have mourned him. All of his friends had been alienated in the last few years of his time in the Academie des Chevaliers. Though perhaps that had been for the best, nobody would have looked for him just to prove him still alive.

He grabs the pile of dirtied sheets, leaving them outside Thom’s door, someone would collect it soon, and returns to hear the other man sighing at the warmth of the bathwater. There’s no anxiety in him as he pushes open the door, originally left slightly ajar in invitation, and plants himself on the vanity stool he had dragged in.

Soft murmurs asking if the water is hot enough fall from his lips. He dips his hands into the bath, testing it with his own fingertips. Thom watches the movement, he does it oddly enough; one arm curled against his stomach as if he were cradling something and leaning down gently. He grabs No One’s hand, bringing it to his lips, kissing his knuckles with the barest hint of a touch. The other man’s arm uncurls from himself and reaches out to gently run across Thom’s bicep.

It could have been an idle thought, but he remembers when his mother used to bathe Liddy as a baby. She’d coo and hum, testing the water before sitting her in the little wooden tub. No One was a father, and he was a liar. Thom thinks that No One might have lied about how close he had been to his daughter. It held true to everything he had told him over time, and the way he had acted over the months. The man spoke fondly of her, memories forming on his lips as words and tales. Names of boys that had taken a liking to her, how he braided her hair often enough that his fingers subconsciously remembered the motions even after all this time.

No One had told him that his daughter had been adopted, but never by who specifically. Someone close enough to his family to warrant him being sent away. An aunt perhaps, his uncle had died before even he had been born, cousins or a close friend; the list would be endless. But she wasn’t sent so far away, and she had been close enough for No One to love her.

“I’m going to speak to Caldwell today, if I can find him.” No One says, and the words drag Thom from his thoughts. It doesn’t take any time for him to understand the other man’s meaning, and he feels a sense of pride swell within him. The man was making strides forward, working towards fixing his missteps, and that was a path that Thom desperately wanted No One to take.

“Do you want me to be there?” He asks, willing to provide a comforting hand if needed. Telling Caldwell about what they both now knew, it would not be an easy task, and there was no way to trivialise what No One was about to undertake.

“No, I think it’s better if I do it alone.” The answer is shrugged, but the smile and his thanks are evident upon his face. Thom could see how it would be better coming from a familiar face, and by a sole person and not something presented as a united front. “Figured I’d do it now before Cousland returns. Give him time to mellow and come to terms with it all.” He explains, nodding as if reassuring himself.

“He’ll need more than a few days.” Thom says, trying not to fuel No One’s desire to avoid his problems, but still trying to keep him true to what may happen. Neither of them knew how Caldwell might react to such news, and there were few men who would take such a thing positively; the young scout wouldn’t be one of them.

“I know, but Cousland could be away for months. Losing family is hard, losing everyone without the chance to go back is unimaginable.” He says, his words trailing into a whisper. No One lets his fingers dance upon the surface of the bathwater, feeling the liquid cling to him in a hopeless desperation. Thom raises a questioning brow, a look of confused sympathy settling into his wet features. There was more hidden in his words, and No One dips his hand into the water a little more, watching the surface rise over his knuckles. “My aunt, she, she walked out of her husband’s funeral and into a lake.”

No One remembers the celebration of Javier’s life, people were dancing, singing soldier’s songs, gorging themselves on expensive foods. A traditional Orlesian funeral. Javier had died in a pointless battle between nobility, the first to fall on the field. He was a chevalier, who’s death was not one of honour or pride. People had tried to console her, telling him that he was brave, and that his death had settled an argument. But those words, with kind intentions, were cruel.

Collette, his aunt, the original heir to the Baroulx fortunes even above her elder brother Florent, bid her farewells, and told the guests to continue consuming the food she had brought. It had been expensive, too expensive, and people had seen it as a sign of grieving. Nobody had the gall to tell her to calm her spending; she was a newly made widow, and most of her family were well-built chevaliers. Offending one had the roots to cause minor warfare.

He had only been a child at the time, perhaps eleven or twelve, and so most of the adults kept their conversations quiet. Eavesdropping, as accidental as it had been, had revealed a worry for his aunt. No One hadn’t thought much of it at that time, his mother had explained it away, saying that Aunt Collette was simply grieving on her own. Gossipers had clung to the worry, and it had slowly begun to spiral into damning rumours. Nobody could protect them from those viler words.

No One had seen a button, floating in the lake near the estate but a few days later. It didn’t make much sense to be there, and he had pointed it out to Luci. His younger brother, who had only been eight years old at the time, thought it’d be funny to have one of the servants wade in and fetch it. Even Armel had been brought out the laugh with them, all three Baroulx boys trying to stem their bubbling laughter.

They had giggled at the sight of the middle-aged woman rowing out to fetch the button, both of them knowing that the small thing would sink or swim away with the waves. Things had changed very quickly. The maid, she had paused, one hand dipped in the water, just above her knuckles, and then had reeled back screaming. The vessel had swayed violently, and she clutched the sides so that she wouldn’t fall in, kicking uselessly at the boat she was in to try and push herself away from the figure that lurked below.

All three boys had been frozen, fear crippling them as they felt sheer panic and dread consume them. Heavy footsteps and shouts had approached the from behind. He remembers his father pulling him back from the edge of the lake, the button of his collar digging into his throat, and his mother scooping Luci up in one arm and dragging Armel away by his hand. The maid hadn’t yet stopped screaming.

“We all thought she’d gone to get some rest, I heard whispers that she hadn’t been seen for a few days. Then we found her, all bloated and, you know, foul.” No One explained. The button had been from her grieving attire, she had taken in so much water that her dress had split, and the buttons had begun to swim to the surface. That had been the day his father officially became a Duke, and the only child left of the late Duchess Georgette Baroulx.

“I’m sorry.” Thom’s fingers grab onto No One’s own submerged ones, his thumb running across the tips slowly. It’s probably not the most comforting story to hear when he’s in a pool, albeit rather a small one, of water.

“No, it’s fine, I’m, there’s a lot of death in my family.” He laughs without mirth, scrubbing at his face to rid the wetness in his eyes. The most upsetting memory of that time was his parents fussing over all three of them. Bringing them hot sweetened milk, sitting with them until they all fell asleep in that large fourposter bed together. Neither of the three boys had seen Collette when she had been pulled from the lake, he knows now that his parents constant watch was probably because of that, as well as the very obvious need to comfort their children after what they had been subjected to.

It also made sense why his mother had been so panicked when she couldn’t find him the year after that, when he had been with Adeline’s mother far before he knew the events that were to unfold. Her shoes had been damp, and there was a boat on the lake with three servants in. She had feared him dead, perhaps that is why she had been so furious; the other elements of that day notwithstanding.

“Caldwell deserves to know, like you said.” No One says, taking them away from the subject of his past. He offers Thom an iron smile, clearing the sorrow swelling in his throat, and taking his hand from the bath.

“He won’t thank you for it, but it’s the best thing to do in the long run.” Thom shrugs lightly, offering something of a sympathetic look. He shifts in the bath slightly, shuffling forward so that he can slip entirely under the water. A breath held in his lungs as his fingers run through his hair, dragging the lengths and then brushing through the fork of his beard. He pushes himself from underneath, running a hand over his face and squeezing his nose to rid it of the water.

“Doesn’t make it any easier.” No One grumbles, passing Thom the clump of soldier’s soap. A comfortable silence settles over them, No One folding his arms atop the rim of the tub and resting his head upon them. He watches as Thom scrubs himself with the soap, something of a calm beginning to veil them both, and feels a smile beginning to ache his cheeks.

 “You want a happy memory? That isn’t a come on.” He says, laughing slightly at his unintentional proposal. No One feels as if he owes it to Thom to give him something good, as far as he knows, all of his past that Thom knows about has mostly been miserable. A groan escaped him as he pulls back and sits up from the tub, his shoulders popping uncomfortably.

“I’d like that, either way if I’m honest.” Thom grins, wringing water from his hair, flicking some of the excess at the other man.

“I remember these white flowers that smelt like honey, can’t remember where or when, but they smelt incredible.” He explains, remembering it vividly. White flowers with red centres, sweet things, the smell seemed to encompass him entirely even though there hadn’t been that many around. “But they didn’t _taste_ like honey.” He adds with rumbling laughter.

“You _ate_ the flowers? You didn’t think that was an odd thing to do?” Thom pauses in his bathing for just a moment, a wavering frown upon his brow, fighting against the disbelieving laughter that falls from his lungs.

“Not at the time,” He shrugs, scratching at his shoulder and grinning, “I mean I could have been a baby or something.”

“Aye, _something_.”

“Are you insulting me? I open up my heart and you insult me.” He reels back, one hand clutched against his naked chest in mock offence and the other drawn against his forehead.

“I thought you were tough.” Thom prods him in the gut, causing his torso to buckle in defence. A laugh slips from him as he stands, hands coming to rest on Thom’s shoulders and his lips pressed against his own.

“Fighting talk, Thom, fighting talk.” He whispers, squeezing him beneath his palms, and pulling away. “You want anything from the tavern?” Thom calls out his decline; voice still tinged with laughter. No One shrugs into a fresher shirt, Thom wouldn’t be so averse to him taking one, and pulls the druffalo wool over his shoulders. The sheets have already been taken from outside the door.

Finding Caldwell would hopefully be a long task, and he would have several hours to think over how to explain what he wanted to tell him. If anything, he’d rather put it off a little while longer, but he wanted to sever the ties he had to Cousland, and he couldn’t bear to carry the weight of this secret for much longer. Not when he knew how much it would hurt when it was delivered.

The tavern is full will customers grabbing their second meal of the day, and No One manages to grab a small pie from Cabot and leave the overstuffed room. A wave was sent to The Iron Bull, and he wondered why the man spent his entire day in the tavern when he was supposed to be some kind of hired mercenary captain. The pie is sweet, fruits baked in with meat, all drowning in a thick red gravy. Peach pie would be a nice thing to eat, even just a slice would do him. He swallows for the saliva that pools in his mouth at the thought, peaches in sweetened honey between thin slices of pastry that barely held the mixture inside.

He eats it quickly, sitting on the wall that separates the upper and lower courtyards with a drop that could easily break legs with a fall. A corner of the pie is left, sat on the wall beside him, and he regrets not grabbing a bottle of ale. The pie was moreish, and he just felt greedy enough to go get a second or a third from the tavern. It’d occupy his hands until he could find that familiar ginger scout; something he really didn’t want to rush to.

Valdis’ workspace was something out of the way deep inside of Skyhold. Unnaturally cold to keep ingredients fresher, it was rare that someone wouldn’t be plagued by their own heated plumes of breath. The walls were lined with coloured bottles upon labelled vials upon freshly blown flasks; a poisoner’s metaphorical goldmine. It was guarded constantly, with repetitive checks to ensure all concoctions were still in her laboratory. Woe be it for someone in Skyrim to be poisoned by their own stocks.

She was an older woman, borderline frail, with blotches of discoloured skin over her body, and the ripple of layers of burns sang across her hands and forearms. Her accent was thick, though she was vague about where she had originally come from; only that it was further than Leliana had ever been. Though the spymaster thought that was just her way of maintaining something of a mysterious air.

“Have you seen anything like this before?” Leliana asks, waiting for the older woman to read through the entire list and description. Valdis read carefully, a pointed nail scratching along the vellum to keep her place. She mutters as she does so, a habit she hadn’t managed to rid herself of. It was one of the reasons why Leliana hadn’t ever hired her for something more intricate to her work. Valdis’ murmuring lips would reveal far too many secrets.

“No, is new; people try to combine poison and antidote before, but goes wrong.” She shrugs, her ink-stained sinewy shoulders exposed in the half robe she wore. “Usually poison win, yes?” It brings a coughing chuckle to her lungs, and she hides it in her elbow. Valdis had a constant sickness, something that had riddled her since a child. Exposing herself to poisons had been a way of telling fate to piss off, she hadn’t died yet, and she took each day as a victory. Though she had no dreams that it wouldn’t catch up to her someday.

“And this one?”

“Is made to make sleep.” Valdis guesses. She glances at Leliana with a painted brow, shuffling passed her to grab at a few hefty tomes all written in her own hand. “Permanent? Maybe. Only way to tell is to drink.” Another laugh slips from her frame. The heavy books hit her desk, rattling the vials and bottles that sit upon it as if they quaked in fear of those documented words. Lists upon lists of poisons and their effects and antidotes. Most were marked with a cross in the margin, Leliana had figured out it meant that the concoction was fatal, two crosses meant that it was once thought to be fatal, but somebody had once survived being poisoned by such a thing. Circles were drawn in the margins of poisons that one could survive, ranked with numbers on exactly how painful they were said to be. The blank ones were the ones that worried Leliana. Untested poisons in Thedas, without tested antidotes.

“Can you make it?” Leliana asks. Valdis scoffs at her words, rolling her eyes and pulling open the first tome to drag her fingers quickly down the page. She was looking for something in particular. The ingredients were popular in Antiva; the country boasted the best assassins and the best brothels, it was wise to have items that encompassed the best of both things. Poison trade was heavy between the two businesses.

“Where from?” She asks after a moment of reading; the spymaster was kind in her silence. “Ah, _no question,_ _Valdis_.” She adds with laughter, mimicking her Orlesian as best as she could. Leliana had her undying loyalty, so long as the coin kept coming and her laboratory was undisturbed. Higher prices warranted a movement of herself, and coin kept her heart light and her purse heavy. The inability to ask questions had been clear from the start, and she wasn’t permitted to speak of her work either. Strict, but necessary.

“Do you need a volunteer? Or can you find one yourself?” Leliana says, knowing full well what she asks. Testing poisons was not a long-lived career, and Leliana had few qualms with testing on prisoners. Or rather, she used to, Goddard’s do-good attitude had stopped her before more than once.

“Few volunteer in this work. Take two week, maybe more.” She pushes a tome away from herself, open on a specific page with notes to a different tome. Valdis has to shuffle to the other side of the room to grab another tome. She moves slowly, with an uneven set of hips that lends to her limp, but she has little pain in her legs. The table quakes with the weight of the book, and she finds the noted page easily enough, flipping open to a specific recipe and leaving it open.

The spymaster had been correct in her assumptions; Crow’s poison. Meant to induce paralysis and a sense of nothingness, to give them hallucinations beyond control. It isn’t meant to torture physically, but it had made men go mad during the time it was applied to them. The Trade translation ironically called it _Lucid_.

She hadn’t any qualms with figuring out where he had retained the recipe, his intimacies with one of the very few, if not the only, ex-Crow, was far more telling than any theories she could imagine. Perhaps he had intended to drive No One insane with such a thing; if he was a failed assassin then this was a clean way of keeping the man alive but discredit anything he said. But with the antidote brewed in, it made little sense, even with Valdis’ mutterings. There was no reason for him to want the man asleep, I wasn’t as if he had his own room of stored items. Perhaps it was to dispose of him quickly and quietly, without a fight, perhaps No One was far more dangerous than she had thought him to be.

“Here, list for ingredient.” She says, thrusting a scrap of parchment still wet with ink at her. Valdis knew she already had some of the needed items in her laboratory, some of the rarer ones were often kept for cases such as this. The amount of Felandris she had in store was borderline absurd. Leliana reads it quickly, her eyes skimming the page. A date was listed at the bottom, the day for completion; assuming the Inquisition could get her the ingredients by the end of the day.

“I might need it before then.”

“No. Strict instruction, or else go wrong.” Valdis turns to the spymaster, brows pulled tightly into a frown. Her finger wags in a scolding manner for a moment before waving Leliana to the door. “The poison win; definitely.” She adds with a visible huff.  The poison maker stands once more, clutching her back in scarred hands, and limps towards the chest at the end of her bed. Rare was it that she left the room for the amount of concoctions she brewed at any one time.

A key is pulled from inside of her clothes, jammed into the lock, twisted until a heavy clunk is heard, and opened. Leliana could see several sets of protective working leathers inside, a pair of thick gloves that hadn’t any wear upon them, an apron that had most definitely seen better days. Valdis pulls out a mask, laden with heating runes at the front, and a pouch for spices or herbs. It was used to distract the wearer from unpleasant smells or toxic fumes, which only led to the implied potency of such a poison.

“Thank you.” Leliana offers a nod as she makes her way to the door.

“Ah, is pleasure to me.” Valdis laughs, “Perhaps not to guest.” She adds, cackling and coughing from sick lungs. Leliana leaves her with her morbid jests, striding passed the guards quickly so that she might return to work.

Since she had lost her faith in The Iron Bull, she would have to have a scout trailing No One, reporting on everything that he did day in and day out. Leliana couldn’t trust the Qunari any longer; despite what he had said, he still held loyalties to the Qun and that meant a loyalty to Andrastopher. An unhealthy link to the assassin who she hadn’t been able to figure out for months.

Scouts had searched through records trying to find out who he was, but there had only been a trail of missing papers, or ink smudges on important documents. Someone was trying very hard to keep him hidden, to erase any record of him ever being there. No One was an apt and fitting name, it was hard to find a man without a name. Even Adeline had failed them. Bull hadn’t mentioned No One as Qunari, but they seemed to be a group who would be able to remove documentation like this if they needed to. Perhaps he and Andrastopher went back far further than she had initially thought.

Leliana decides she’ll have scouts sent to Castle Cousland to dig up any documentation of the assassin. Perhaps they couldn’t arrest the Warden Commander outright, but they could hound his supposed second for information. The thought of Lei slips into her head, could he have had something to do with this? No One had taken the name of Lei’s old accomplice when he had first arrived.

The whole thing is far too complex to be thinking about idly, she’d have to invest more into this, but only if she had scouts to spare. Corypheus still evaded them, and it had been months since they had last seen him. If the darkspawn heretic manages to get information of Goddard’s injured state, or the displacement of his family, things could get very bad very quickly.

Spring was most definitely upon them, Andrastopher had spotted several sprouting flowers just a touch too early in the year. But the weather as of late had been warm enough that some of the recruits had shed a layer of clothing, the sun felt nice upon his skin, but he had thrown up his hood to protect the naked part of his scalp. There was little that could undermine his fearsome presence like a forehead the colour of a slapped arse.

The sun seemed to bring more laughter to the group; joyful faces surrounded him more often than not, and he was glad to see them all getting along so well. He had lead Joinings when the participants hated each other, and he much preferred the more amicable groups he had inducted into the Grey Wardens. There was a rather large downside to this sense of friendship, the knowledge of this was his to bear until their trials. It was hard to lose a friend to the darkspawn cocktail, it was harder to lose a friend who ran from their turn and into Andrastopher’s own arrow. An action he had been complicit in far too many times.

“Excuse me a moment, Dian.” He says, one hand held up to stop the others from following. The dwarf offers a salute and blush at the action, she felt far too nervous around the Warden Commander. Andrastopher spurs his horse forward a few steps quicker, reaching Oscar who was some feet ahead, and not travelling alongside the group. The scout turns when he hears his name called, pulling his horse until it settled where it stood. He felt the need to ignore it but had bitten his tongue and turned without a scrap of irritation on his features.

“Is something wrong?” Oscar asks, an eyebrow raised at the recruits waiting a couple of yards away.

“We need to head south a day.” Andrastopher explains, pointing to a path in the distance away from the main road that they travelled on. It would be the easiest exit for the horses, though he did not know if it would be worse further in, and there was only one way of finding that out. The lesser taken paths were usually over grown, and the bushels along the ground could tangle in the horse’s hooves and trip them.

“South? We’re heading north east.” He frowns, pointing instead to the main road, there was an inn up ahead, if they rode quickly enough they could make it before nightfall. Oscar had been looking forward to a proper bath and a proper bed, and a time to rest the saddle sores that were making their mark between his thighs.

“A detour is required.” He says, almost irritated that Oscar would assume he didn’t know the roads to his own city.

“Why?”

“There are darkspawn to the south, thirty-seven by my count.” He had felt them earlier in the day, like a pinprick at the tip of his spine, spreading like ink until it grew no more. “It would be wiser to take them before they take us.” A larger group than he had hoped for, but it was the closest to them. The further south you travelled in Ferelden the more likely you were to meet stragglers, many often accumulated on the blighted land that surrounded Old Lothering.

“They’re a day south, we can avoid them.” Oscar shakes his head, pulling at the reins to keep his horse walking, Andrastopher grabs them swiftly, and the horse whinnies at the movement.

“Not when they think I’m on my own a day north.” His words are grave, and he inclines his head in hope that the scout may understand how grievous and how important this task is. “A small horde uncontrolled is dangerous, and the Bannorn is only yet recovering.”

“Lead the way then, Commander.” Oscar gestures for Andrastopher to take point, chewing his own tongue in annoyance. He offers a nod as he takes it, leading them down a less worn path, and gesturing for the group of recruits to follow him. But his thoughts stick to the title Oscar had just used; rare was it that he ever called him anything but Andras. He had been stewing on whatever imagery he had conjured between him and Lei, and it was dampening his chances of finding out what Oscar intended to deliver back to Skyhold from overseas.

He whistles to his mabaris, all three had run ahead with wagging tails and open maws, and they turn and run back to him without hesitation. Andrastopher glances to the group behind, lingering on Lei for half a second. Oaklain hadn’t officially been given to him, and Andrastopher hadn’t told him that he had been chosen by the mabari either. It should have been obvious, if it weren’t for the other two dogs, still imprinted on Andrastopher, he doubted that Oaklain would even follow his commands.

It was a difficult task to take to. Losing one of his mabaris, even if Lei would be by his side until either of them died, it didn’t make it less painful. Oaklain would always be there, but he wouldn’t be his, and that’s upsetting enough. Still, when he eventually got this Skyhold business over and done with, he would visit the hounds of the Fereldan monarchy; Everleigh was agreeable to having her third litter.

Andrastopher clears his mind of such thoughts. For now, he has to concentrate on locating that large group of darkspawn. The recruits he had gathered would do well enough; they had taken down a Pride demon, and had handled subsequent groups of demons, getting better every time. But this would be almost four darkspawn for each one of them, that was if none were felled in the battle. He would have to set up trip wires and traps around their camp night tonight, just as a precaution.

“Ser, what did you think of Orzammar?” Dian asked, clearing her throat awkwardly, wondering if she hadn’t spoke loudly enough. The Warden Commander always had the same relaxed expression on his face, and she never knew if he was thinking or just blocking everything out. “I’ve been itching to ask all day.” She adds. The tales of the Hero of Ferelden in Orzammar had been thrilling, people even had theatrical plays of the man who she now rode beside.

He had entered Orzammar to witness the dismay they had fallen into, crowned them a King, and left with a segment of the Legion of the Dead behind him. There was no way to diminish what he had done for them, even if some disagreed with his methods. Enough to send a small troop of dwarves to kill him in Orzammar, someone had tried to poison his food once, but apparently one of Andrastopher’s friends had ruined that plan. Some had claimed him to be immortal, perhaps not physically, but the Shaperate would never forget his arrival.

Dian had seen him a few times, it was hard not to, he stood at the height of two or three dwarves, but had never had the courage, nor time, to meet him. There was something of a statue dedicated to him in Orzammar, not only for helping to crown a King, but for repetitive aid in the Deep Roads over the last decade. Apparently, he and Kardol had a great relationship, according to the dwarf’s sister anyway.

“It was structured well. Nobody sold any arrows, I spent several sovereigns buying a crossbow with respectable bolts.” He says it without any change in tone of his voice. The crossbow was expensive, and he hated using it. A weapon was a weapon, of course, but a crossbow was slower and Andrastopher could not gauge the strength of his pull without the stretch in his torso. But without several tedious travels back to the surface, he’d run out of arrows soon enough and be stuck without any kind of ranged weapon. It was finely crafted, which was one of the few redeemable qualities it had.

“Orzammar does has the best craftsmen.” She smiles, thinking fondly of her home.

“Sometimes. I hired Master Erhard for that very reason.” Andrastopher turns to her, offering something of a raised brow. She had her dwarven pride, and it was well placed. Master Erhard was a hardy dwarf, a heavily decorated beard that grew down to his groin, and a face full of blocked tattoos. Casteless from birth, but with a clear talent for blacksmithing. Erhard had a desire to become Paragon, but he knew Branka would more than likely take that title and outshine him entirely.

“Hired him?” Dian asks, sceptical in her features and her tone.

“He works at Vigil’s Keep, he creates the armour for the Grey Wardens.” He turns back to the road, ducking under the low hanging branches that stand far above Dian’s head. They would be heading down paths that would be entirely forest land, if only to avoid the lords of the Bannorn, and to possibly meet with Andrastopher’s messenger. The fact that a darkspawn troop was on route with that was a lucky stroke.

The messenger, he could feel the taint in him even from so far away. Though his hope was that the darkspawn would not see him as a threat, for locating each other with the tainted hivemind was the easiest way to meet, and to not draw attention from non-Grey Wardens to either of them. It also kept them from relying on others to deliver their messages. The messenger has done his best to start again and revealing his position or his new name would damage everything he had accomplished in these last few years. Both of them had.

They were doing good work, and it benefitted the Wardens to some degree, even if it sometimes involved blood magic. Not that either of the pair would admit it. If they could figure out how to pull the blight from the land, so that it was safe to grow crops and settle there, it would be an immeasurable use to all of Thedas. Progress had been slow, progress would have been slower without those two.

“I heard you went down into the Deep Roads, Ser.” Dian says, taking him from his thoughts of the messenger. “I haven’t been myself, I wasn’t warrior caste.” She shrugs. Dian had been cagey about her personal caste, but she hadn’t been casteless, evident enough by the smooth inkless cheekbones she had. It was her own personal inclination to keep people from knowing about her time in Orzammar, even the reason why she had been exiled had been kept close to her chest.

Back in Orzammar, during the blight, when she had first seen Andrastopher Cousland; the man who would save Thedas, he hadn’t had that red ink staining his face. Dian had been shocked to see him again, not only bearing tattoos on his face, but learning that they scaled his entire body. The group of recruits had all bathed in a small lake prior, separated by gender to preserve some modesty despite Andrastopher claiming they would lose that need in time. He had risen from the water with black hair clinging to his distorted frame and masses of red lining him.

She hadn’t been the only one surprised at the tattoos, and it had sparked the conversation for that night. Andrastopher had explained that the Chasind tattoos upon his face bore his loyalty to a specific clan, they would find safety and succour in his lands should they require it. He hadn’t told them that it was to the clan who had kept his brother safe during the Blight, a stranger they had taken in and nursed back to health during such a turbulent time. The rest, had less reasoning to them, except the ones on his hands which held the lines of archer’s gloves decorating his fingers. He only said he liked them, and he knew a man skilled with the tattooist needle.

“I met the exiled Prince in there.” He admits, poking for information on whether the young dwarf had supported Harrowmont or Bhelen. It wasn’t something that mattered, but Andrastopher had only put one of them on the throne. There were still some loyalists who spoke about getting back at the intrusive Warden and that bloody usurper.

“The Aeducan?”

“He survived for months on his own.” Andrastopher explains. “Ate spiders, drank old ale left behind by the Legion and supped from the wet rocks, he used his own clothes as bandages, and donned darkspawn armour in its place.” His hardiness and his will to survive had done him great recommendation. Even Oghren had been surprised at the sight of him, blonde hair wild and tangled, slick with natural grease and dirt. Though he had been more thrilled with the Prince calling him _My Lord_.

“And I always thought Trian was the toughest.” Dian muses, scratching at her cheek and coughing awkwardly. “Dagrin always came to the markets, he was always real friendly, always assumed he was hammering the anvil with that Second of his.” Andrastopher holds back on raising his brow, merchant caste he now assumed, had Dian had a crush on him? Nevertheless, it didn’t matter, Prince Dagrin had turned to _hammering the anvil_ with Master Erhard. Perhaps the exiled Prince would be in Amaranthine when they arrived there, just to visit his lover of several years.

“What happened to Prince Dagrin? I mean, there’s a happy ending for him after all that, isn’t there?” She sounded hopeful, as if this wasn’t going to be a gruelling journey, but something of a frivolous adventure. “Months in the Deep Roads, all alone, it must have been awful.” She sighs, her brows pinching together as she looks in the distance. Andrastopher truly begins to think that perhaps Dian was not prepared for this change in life. Grey Wardens rarely got a so-called happy ending, and he knew he would die, all alone, down in those Deep Roads, as many others had done and will do.

“He became a Grey Warden.”

“By the Paragons, truly?” Dian said, her voice rising just a touch. Andrastopher sends her a frown, she had a habit of repeating answers and questions or something along those lines. It was grating and took up time that could be used for other such things. “Sorry, Ser.” She adds, rubbing the tip of her thick nose. 

“It is forgiven. Though becoming a Grey Warden isn’t a fabled happy ending, it’s a lifelong calling, to serve Thedas without the need for thanks.” He explains, trying to get her to realise this was no fairy tale. The things they did, the things they would do, they were not the type of actions that people sang about in flowery songs. “Prince Dagrin could have gone anywhere after we left Orzammar, he chose to stay, he chose to fight, he chose his sacrifices.” The dwarf was valiant beyond words and had helped them to navigate the Deep Roads during the blight. Going to far as to create his own maps, marking out the movements of the darkspawn hordes and which tunnels were collapsed. It wasn’t hard to realise why he had once been chosen to lead the armies of Orzammar.

“His sacrifices?” It’s the first time Dian’s voice has borne the slightest hints of sorrow in.

“He entered the order voluntarily, giving up what little he had to his name for the greater good of Thedas.” Andrastopher says, realising he might have made it sound like Dagrin had died at some point. Regardless it quietened Dian’s mouth and loudened her thoughts.

“Just like we’re doing.” She says proudly, smiling with almost perfect teeth when Andrastopher sends her a nod. The dwarf glances back at the group, Kina and Quincy had taken to riding side by side; mostly due to their feelings and not anything to do with riding structure of a group. But it didn’t matter. All of them, even Colt the worst bard around, they were beginning to feel like family. The Inquisition Scout on the other hand, Oscar she thought his name was, lingered at the back of the group, looking miserable as the void. If it weren’t for the Warden Commander’s request that she ride up front with him, she would have gone to check if he was alright. He hadn’t been his usual cheery self as of late, but he hadn’t complained about whatever was troubling him.

Dian didn’t know exactly the reason why Oscar had travelled with them. He wasn’t taking this journey to become a Grey Warden, and if he was on his way to Amaranthine why would he allow a two-day detour to allow them to create the Joining ceremony. There had been rumours, mostly from Colt who liked making rumours and talking shit more often than not. But they ranged from Oscar being a Qunari spy to being a demon sent to lure them all to their deaths; the scout hadn’t been present during the Pride fight, maybe he couldn’t fight his own kin.

Most of the brushed it off as being entirely horseshit, but still, none of the truly knew his real reasoning. One theory, produced by Quincy, had claimed them lovers. But, she had said with eagerness, that they were hiding it in order to remain professional. Lawrence had pointed out that the Inquisition wouldn’t allow their scouts to take time off just to visit their lovers, not in the thrall of such warfare.

Of course, nobody had yet had the courage to ask Andrastopher, and Oscar only gave them the same answer _; I’m on a job for the Inquisition_. Which could only lead to more questions and fewer answers. Lei had pointed out that they were probably travelling together for safety and nothing more, it was dangerous out here in a group, more so if you were alone. They professed that as the most boring reason of them all. Kina had guessed him as an Inquisition spy, the Grey Wardens were under a strict watch because of what had happened at Adamant. It was the first time the group had wholly considered what life might be like as a Warden in a world whence they were so hated.

They had all seen Andrastopher bearing it well, both in Skyhold and on the roads they now travelled. How people would look away, hiding their faces, fearing the Right of Conscription. Others would spit at the floor as they passed, Annelise had once turned her horse around to shout at the man who had done such a thing. Andrastopher had scolded her for that, especially when the man quickened his steps to leave. People were bold in their actions, but they acted in fear of them, more now than ever. It was part of their job as Grey Wardens to suffer these moments of offence. The people of Thedas didn’t know exactly what they would go through, what they had been through, but they needed allies, and they needed the heroic tales which enthralled children and adults alike.

Caldwell hadn’t yet gotten over yesterday’s conversation. More of a mocking if he thought about it. He had hoped that Garron had managed to return the axe without any issue, but he also hoped that he had come into some complications and suffered harsh reprimands. Rats had tried to see him, but he had ignored her until she’d left. It was cruel of him, and he felt guilty about it afterwards, but he only wanted some time alone to think of what they had both revealed.

He had feelings for Wystan, or whatever his name was, and though he had worked hard to squash them, he still felt foolish for it. The idiot had played him like a bloody fiddle, wrapped up as a one-time lover and left to flounder into something of a desire for him. Caldwell knew there hadn’t been a chance for them, not when Thom Rainier had stepped into the frame, but that didn’t mean he stopped feeling things.

They were supposed to be friends, he and whatever his name was. Obviously, the man hadn’t cared enough to tell him that he was lying about his name, which meant he could have been lying about a dozen other things. Were they even friends? That whole relationship could have been a lie. And for what? Was he some kind of long standing jest? The thought makes him grind his teeth and huff out his breath in frustration. He scrubs at the sides of his face and readjusts the satchel over his shoulder.

Caldwell stands in the lower courtyard, pulling out the next set of letters to read the recipient, checking that they all belong to the same person and then mentally running through the castle for their room. He glances up, his heart sinking when he sees that familiar blonde. The man waves at him, turning from his seat on the upper courtyard wall and jogging down the steps. Caldwell wonders how he can get out of seeing him, he hurriedly stuffs the letters back into his satchel and makes his way to the kitchens instead.

The man is relentless, and he hears the slap of bare feet on the stone steps behind him, and a familiar hand curling upon his shoulder. It’s a quick turn of irritation to dislodge him, pushing at his chest and only realising his movement when Wystan stumbles backwards, arms stretched out to grab at something to steady himself. The man doesn’t shout, his hand scraping bloody against the wall, but his body twists one arm cupping his head as he falls.

It’s a blur to Caldwell, but he’s staggering down the steps when he sees Wystan arse over tit and groaning at the base of them. He rolls until he’s on his knees, clutching at his stone burnt hand, grumbling breaths mixed with laughter. Caldwell is beside him, kneeling beside him and grabbing at his hand, apologies tumbling from his lips like they always had done. For a moment his anger is forgotten, knowing he could have just pushed the man to his death or at least to a serious injury. But it floods back when a set of iron teeth meet him, smiling with embarrassment at falling down a set of steps.

“Your training is going well then.” He laughs rubbing at the back of his neck, it ached with the strain of falling on it awkwardly. “At least I got you to stop.”

“I, I have work to do.” Caldwell says, a frown settling a weight upon his brows as he stands. His knees are damp with the mire made of mud and trodden snow, and he does his best to brush himself clean; his satchel hasn’t taken too much damage, it was made to endure the weathers.

“I needed to talk to you, and, you have just pushed me down a flight of stairs.” He stumbles as he stands, staggering until his shoulder is pressed against the wall, giving him a sense of balance and security in his footing. “Can I walk with you?”

“No.”

“Caldwell, come on, I might not have the courage to say it at another time.” He laughs pitilessly, reaching out to stop him from taking the stairs to the kitchen yet again.

“I don’t care.” He whispers, his voice cracking and his pitch rising involuntarily. Caldwell stands a step higher than the other man, and it puts them at the same height, and he feels as if he’s finally on equal footing with the liar.

“You don’t,” No One frowns, “is something wrong?” The push should have been evident enough, the almost violent reaction to being almost grabbed like that. But the snippy tones, the short answers, the desperation to leave. It wasn’t like Caldwell, it wasn’t like him at all.

“You’re a liar, that’s what’s wrong.” He hisses.

“I’m a liar?” No One repeats, a brow raised, squinting at the other man in confusion. Caldwell scoffs in disbelief, hands itching to fiddle with his satchel strap. He refrains from it, for the first time in a long time, Rats had told him it was an automatic movement when he was nervous, one of his many tells.

“Your name, is it Wystan? Or Easton? Or Eustace?” He counts them on his fingers, jabbing them with anger lacing his hands, “or is it something else entirely?”

“Shit.” No One whispers, almost only to himself, before he clears his throat. Caldwell had tried to leave, turning on the steps, taking one higher, before he stops at the words that follow. “Listen, I lied about that, yes, but, I have reasons.”

“Go on.” He swallows thickly, giving in and grabbing the strap that dressed his shoulders, pulling at it with anxious fingers.

“I don’t have the best, I’m not exactly, when I was younger I,” He stumbles over his words, he wanted to salvage what he had with the young man, but he couldn’t give anything away. “I don’t have a name, Caldwell.” No One sighs, scratching at his hair, now held in a lopsided half-loosened bun at the back of his head.

“You don’t have a name.” Caldwell deadpans, disbelieving the other man. Out of all the things he could have said, the excuses he could have made, that was the worst. What kind of man didn’t have a name, he scoffed internally, everyone had a name.

“Thom calls me No One, that’s what I go by nowadays.” He admits, his voice lowering to include just the two of them. Skyhold had many a wandering ear, and he had no doubt that someone somewhere would be listening. “I don’t tend to stick around, so I lie about my name, because that’s easier, No One’s my name, that’s what I chose, for myself.” His words seem honest, but Caldwell can’t see past the lies he had already told. No matter how he thinks of him, all he knows is that he’s spent the last several months thinking his name was Wystan.

Friends, what few he had, they wouldn’t keep up with a lie like that. Wystan, _No One_ , he corrects himself, was the only one he’d developed feelings for. A liar, he’d fallen into something with a liar. Worse than that he’d told people, and the only way he would have found out is by telling those particular people. Caldwell had believed everything. He had swallowed that lie so eagerly that it was almost embarrassing. But how was he to know, to know that the man in front of him was nothing but a liar.

It was a crueller thing for fate to have subjected him to. It was bad enough that his clan had mocked him, that the love he had held for one of them had been rejected so unkindly. But to be ridiculed once more, by falling for a man with no name, a man who relished that fact and bragged enough to call himself _No One_. To find an ego in his nothingness, to lie to everyone he knew with multiple names like some kind of compulsive fibber.

“I thought we were friends.” Caldwell says after a moment of silent albeit rampant thought.

“We are.” No One says, brows pulling up and together, it creates a crease between them; Mythal, had he always looked this old? “Aren’t we?” It’s a barely audible plea, that follows, and Caldwell bites his tongue to stiffen his lip.

“Not anymore. I trusted you, and you’ve been lying about your name this entire time.” He says it sternly, proud of how his voice is unwavering. This is who he wanted to be, strong, proud, infallible.

“It’s just a name.” No One says, searching for something, anything, in Caldwell’s features. He’d been taught to read people, that was part of the grand game, but all he could see were the effect of a betrayal in the young man’s face.

“A name is everything, who you are, who your family is, where you came from.” His words echo inside of himself, should he take his birth name and relent Caldwell? He would always be Geldwyl, and he could become strong in that. Though the hypocrisy- No, he stops himself, he did it to change, No One did it to take advantage. “You’re a liar, and I don’t want to know you anymore.”

“Caldwell.” He pleads.

“Let’s just, stay out of each other’s way from now on.” Caldwell nods, hand falling from his satchel strap, and passing by the man at the bottom of the stairs. He would not flee into the kitchens to avoid him, no, he would take the path he had originally intended to. Woe be it for anyone to get in his way. He was a scout, a soldier in training, a man of the Inquisition.

No One stands there for several moments more, chewing on his tongue, staring at the bloody mess that his hand had become. How had he got things so wrong? Caldwell was one of the closest friends he had in this mountain fortress, the only man he had trusted to deliver letters between him and Thom. He had ruined it, with one little lie he had told him so he wouldn’t scare the young man away.

A man pushes passed him to climb the stairs and No One finds himself wandering mindlessly, if only to get out of the busier places in Skyhold. He finds himself up on the ramparts, climbing down into the area where he had once lived; where he and Thom had built a home. The stains of the firepit have been washed away, and he sighs as he sits down where he had once lain his head. He had gotten this so wrong. Caldwell loathed him, despised him, hated him; and he couldn’t find it within to blame anyone but himself.

There was something worse; Caldwell didn’t get to hear exactly what No One had wanted to tell him, he didn’t know his clan had been murdered. Now he had no way to tell him, not when the young man thought he was a liar through and through. Things had gone so wrong. Caldwell deserved to know the fate of his clan, he deserved to hear it from someone he trusted, someone who could comfort him; and No One was not that man. Not anymore.

He watches the sun dip below the mountain tops, falling until it’s entirely out of sight, and the brilliance of both moons illuminate the sky in its place. The druffalo wool blanket is pulled up and over his head, and he wedges himself far enough into the corner that the light cannot find him. For the moment he half hopes nobody can.

No One stares down at the scabs that had formed over his hand; hard swells of blood like his own little mountains. The conversation, the argument, it runs in his head over and over again. _A name is everything, who you are, who your family is, where you came from._ That was the truth, opposite as the two men were in this balance of lies. But his name, the one his mother had given him, the one his friends had teased him about because it was a northern girl’s name. If that was who he was indefinitely, the thought fills him further with gloom, he didn’t want to be that man again.

His thoughts betray him, dampening the other sounds and smells that linger in Skyhold. He doesn’t hear the approach of familiar boots, nor does he see the figure walking towards him with relief in the night.

“Bull said you were up here.” Thom says, dropping down onto the small ledge that had once made up No One’s home. He gestures to ask if he can sit down beside him, knowing that he looks miserable, and knowing that today probably had gone just about as well as they had both assumed it would. There’s the slightest bit of guilt that begins to build inside of him, partly wishing he had gone with No One just so he might have found him sooner.

Thom had waited in the room they unofficially shared, wondering exactly how long he would be, and knowing that he would need time to explain to Caldwell what had happened. Yet as the minutes wore on, he could feel something gnawing at his innards. No One often wanted nights alone, it was odd at first, but Thom thought the man needed time to adjust to sharing a space with someone. Being safe with someone. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t known his share of men who waked the night only to find a quieter place to mutter to themselves of their fears and worries. Though tonight had been different, and he didn’t want No One to be alone after today.

The tavern had been his first place to look, and Bull had been helpful enough to point him in the right direction. Even if he saw him go up to the ramparts hours ago, it was still something of a beginning. He’s mildly reminded of when Caldwell pointed him up to the ramparts before, when he had found the man dazed and starving, imprisoned for days before anyone had found him.

“Caldwell hates me.” He shrugs. Had Bull been watching him? No One can’t find it within himself to care. Thom doesn’t say anything as he sits down, wincing as his knees pop at the action. The urge to reach out and pull the other man to him is hard to resist, but from the way he’s curled towards himself, it’s obvious he’s not in the best mood for company. Either that or he’s bloody freezing. Still, it doesn’t sway Thom entirely, and he shifts that slight bit closer. His face pinches at the cold stone slowly bleeding into his breeches, his arse would be numb when he got back up.

“It’ll be the grief, and you did a good thing by telling him.” The words slip softly from his lips, consoling little syllables, if they could be felt they’d be wisps of silk bare across No One’s skin. Receiving news about a dead loved one was awful, even if it was a distant relative or a stranger down the way, there was always a sense of sorrow that followed it. But an entire family, it wouldn’t just be grief, it would be loneliness, the guilt of survival, the shame in not being able to be there to protect them. A thousand scenarios that haunted a thousand years.

“I didn’t.” No One huffs, turning so that his back is against the corner, and he can face outwards towards Thom. His uttered admittance sounds even more miserable, “I didn’t tell him.” He catches Thom’s eyes, darkened by the low light, and feels guilt wash over him as he looks away. No One felt unworthy to even look at Thom after today. It had started so well, full of joy and laughter, a warm bath, and now they sat in the chills of the night surrounded by a thick fog of harrowing responsibility.

“So why does he-”

“Because I’m a liar, I lied about my name, I lied about who I was, I slept with him and lied about everything that made me, _me_.” He snaps, punctuating his sentences by jabbing a finger into the palm of his hand. The force of it hurts, his broken nail catching some of those tiny mountains and cutting them away. “He thought my name was Wystan, someone else told it was Easton, someone else told him it was Eustace.” He words spill forth from his mouth uncontrollably, as if he forced them out fast enough they would take the blame with them.

He feels stupid bringing up the fact that they had slept together. It had been months ago and hardly memorable for the right reasons. No One knew his words were trying to push Thom away, that’s what he knew how to do. But, Maker, he didn’t want that, Maker, he’d never want that.

“Maker’s balls, No One, you couldn’t have just picked one?” Thom says brows furrowing; he knew about the multitude of names, but he hadn’t of thought it would have come back on the man like this. There was always going to be something of an issue about the many faces the blonde wore, but for Caldwell to hate him for it, the young elf must have held names as something sacred. He shouldn’t be surprised, No One was the same, guarding his like a treasure horde than none shall see.

“I didn’t think I was staying. If I’d have known I was staying I would have told him my name was No One,” He admits, “I only lied like that because I thought I was going to move on.” Back then, he couldn’t have known the events that would have unfolded, he couldn’t have known he would actually make friends, and he couldn’t have known how he would grow to feel about Thom.

No One’s mind reaches over and over for an excuse to grasp at, something to say it wasn’t his fault. But he knew he had nobody else to blame. Everything he had done to Caldwell had been entirely his fault, and nobody else could shoulder that burden with him. He didn’t want anyone else to share it.

Thom had to bite back his smile at No One’s words; it’s nice to hear the man say he intends to stay in Skyhold, and the reason behind it, Thom was narcissistic enough to think it was because of him. What they had together, it was incredible. The elation he felt near the man, it wasn’t something he had found in commonplace before. Despite how little time they’ve actually spent doing something akin to courting, both of them knew it had been brewing between them for months. And with a hole in the sky and facing the possible end of the world, well, nobody could blame them for falling in head last.

“You told me your name was No One in Val Royeaux.” Thom says, reminding him of the first days when they had met. They hadn’t been friendly back then, though that was expected. A prison cell isn’t the best place to make friends unless you were a certain sort of person. The absurdity of it had made him laugh back then, trapped in a cage with a man that had no name, but had a foul stench in place of it.

“So?”

“You never tried to change it, never tried to lie to me about your name, never told me it was Easton or Eustace or Wystan.” He tries to sound comforting, shifting his body so he sat facing the other man with his entire being. “And you corrected me when I asked you if it was Florent.” Thom reaches out slowly, giving No One the time to move away if he didn’t want the physical contact, and places his palm around his ankle. He blunders slightly pulling back to take of his leather glove, and then presses back, the warmth of his hand bleeding into No One’s naked foot.

“You had me bound with a bastard’s honour, I’ll tell you a name for coin.” He sniffs, laughing under his breath, he didn’t have the energy to falsify it any further. Thom knew him well enough to know when he was trying to change the conversation. “Maybe I wanted the life you offered me back there, maybe I wasn’t willing to give up that chance because of one stupid little lie.”

“I did the same thing, with Ser Blackwall.” Thom admits. Perhaps it wasn’t _exactly_ the same thing, but it was similar enough. “Lied about who I was, what I did. But I came back from it, you can as well, and Caldwell will learn to forgive you.”

“He pushed me down a flight of stairs, Thom.” No One says bluntly. “I’ve got a fucking egg at the back of my head that’s sore as shit, my hand’s scraped, my back hurts, my neck hurts, I’ve been sitting here for hours so my arse is-”

“No One,” Thom laughs softly, stopping him from listing off all of his injuries, “he’ll forgive you, he might push you down another few sets of steps, I’d say you deserve it, but you were friends, good friends, and you’re both good men.”

“Wystan was a good man, No One’s a liar. The two aren’t the same.” He murmurs. No One’s foot, the one Thom isn’t holding by the ankle, comes to rest upon those fingers, his toes curling slightly across the back of his hand. “And it isn’t as if I told him, he caught me with my breeches down.” Quite literally once, but he keeps that to himself.

“He’ll come around.” Thom says.

“I should probably stop saying bastard’s honour, what with Lei and,” he interrupts himself with a sullen laugh, “and my own daughter.” No One scrubs at his face, breathing in deeply and exhaling a plume of heated breath. He was changing the subject again, but he needed it this time.

“I’ve heard beggar’s honour before.” Thom offers with the slightest squeeze of his hand, wedged between No One’s feet it was getting cold. Nobody could call him selfish.

“That’s what the lower-class nobles use, they’d get more respect for knowing their place than reaching beyond their grasp.” No One explains it offhandedly, clutching at Thom’s acceptance of the switch in focus. In the past he had an anxiety about telling the other man certain things about himself, but now, now there was only very thin lining to stop him from spilling everything he knew. Thom had worn him down in the most fabulous of ways, and No One didn’t mind a single dot.

“Upper-class, were you?” He laughs, pinching his skin slightly between thumb and forefinger.

“Forgot about me offering entire estates and titles to the boy from the alienage?” He says it with mirth, but his words carry too much sorrow to even attempt to bring out a chuckle. Changing the subject had only lead them in a circle, one suffering elf to another. “I thought it was bad that I was lying about _one_ name, but there’s a whole other sack of shit beneath that one.”

“Don’t tell me you’re a prince.” Thom whispers, his mouth struggling to maintain the air of seriousness he’s trying to display. He could see No One’s disposition beginning to sink again; the way his shoulders pitched up in defence, his chin lowering to his chest, techniques to protect yourself in fisticuffs, something Thom recognises quickly enough.

“I’m not.” He snorts. “Stop making me feel better. You make it so hard to be miserable.” No One pulls his feet back from Thom’s grasp, separating them, but still wishing Thom would move closer. If it wasn’t so bright with the bloody moons he’d wedge himself under Thom’s arm and listen to the steady thrum of his heartbeat.

“I’d say I’d leave, but that wouldn’t be true.”

“You planning on staying out here all night with me?” No One picks at his broken nails, finding an overwhelming feeling beginning to bloom inside of his chest, and sparking something to increase the tempo of his own heart. Nothing like the fear he’s used to, nothing like the anxiety that’s instilled in him. Something else, something so much better than anything he’s had before.

“If that’s what you need.” Thom says, even though his cheeks are flushed with cold, and he’s got both of his hands back in his gloves and wedged under his armpits for warmth. He wasn’t built for the cold like No One was, and it was evident enough in the way he wedged his tongue between his teeth to stop them from chattering.

“It must be awful work, trying to be there for someone all the time.” No One says, his head shaking only the slightest bit. He doesn’t even know what he’s trying to do, if he’s giving Thom another way out of their relationship or begging him to stay.

“Not if it’s you.” His voice is unwavering, honest beyond description, and it only serves to burn inside of No One’s chest just that bit brighter. It’s an ache he’s willing to suffer, an ache he’s yearning for more of. Damn the moons, he thinks, pushing himself in to steal affection from Thom. He’d burn just to be next to him.


	45. Reasons to Run Away

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> > Credit to Noseforahtwo and the lovely (and heartbreaking) Gordon Blackwall/Thom Rainier fanfiction which I reference in this chapter. It's called Three Weeks to Weisshaupt (and it is so good) and it can be found here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4751477/chapters/10862057
> 
> Warning: This chapter contains violent imagery(?), and the death of several characters in varying levels of description.

No One had run until his feet had begun to bleed, repetitive wet slaps on rough ground and uneven brickwork. Each step became a begging agony to which he could not sate. The walls and fences of the labyrinth that caged him fell away to nature, pillars of stone rising in their place, eyes lingering just out of sight. Whispered words assaulted him, shaking in his vision, clutching at his lungs, tel’ghilas, tel’ghilas, tel’ghilas Da’fen. Yet his legs did not stop, the force of the ground beneath him shaking into the carved muscles of his thighs. He would not stop.

There was no breeze around him, even as he pushed and climbed and crawled his way through the unnatural curling stone. The air was stifling, and he was wet through with sweat, yet he ran with abandon. A golden palace in the distance, spires dancing with singed flags, smoke in plumes like towers of asphyxiation but without the glow of ember, there was no air in here.

Two men in the distance, he could see them, descending the stairs of the palace. Unnaturally high stairs, shifting and carving anew with every step they made. His lungs burned, scratching at his insides, he could taste blood in his mouth, but he could not feel the difference of it upon his face. The towering spires shifted in the distance curling down around the two men, golden limbs outstretched to reach for them, like sinewy muscle and bone.

“Is’garas vhenas, Covetous.” The voice called out, spires recoiling almost violently, the limbs curling back to their own safety, screeching as if the words had cut into their very being. The sound of wet feet, bloodied feet, echoes endlessly but never repeats itself, and No One falls where he stands. Fingers shaking as he clutches at the ground beneath him. There was no stone there, no brickwork nor painted mosaics. No, skin and bone lined the floor beneath him, the tattooed faces of a thousand Dalish glancing up at him. Their eyes bright, alit with their blindness, yet he had no reason to believe they could not see him.

“What home is this?” He cries, the last air that his lungs clutched at desperately slips from his lips, weighed with blood and sweat. No One felt hands grabbing at him, pulling at the shirt, Thom’s shirt, dragging him towards the golden palace. He whimpered as the material caught around his throat, bunching under his arms and choking him in the airless void.

“Var vhenas, mala vhenas.” The words sang out, over and over, thousands of biting maws billowing smoke beneath him echoing limitlessly. He kicked uselessly, scrabbling for anything he could. Wherever he reached the corpses recoiled. They weren’t here to save him, the palace had not moved to help him, no, it was here to kill him. The revenant, he reaches for the demon that follows him, watching as the corpses beneath him lay out their backs for it to walk upon, had it been keeping him safe?

“Au secours,” he gasps, his lungs failing him, his eyes failing him, his body failing him. No One grabs at his throat, clutching at himself as if it would help him to breathe once more. He pulls at the fabric that chokes him, bitten nails digging into the skin of his neck, catching strands of his hair and snatching them from his scalp.

He inhales deeply, throat burning with the rush of air. No One chokes on it, coughing from abused lungs, spitting from his mouth, the liquid dripping onto the floor, droplets of pink saliva marring the stone floor under his knees. A hand is on his back, a wide palm, calloused and sword-worn, rubbing gently, soothing him as he falls back from his hunched over position. Another is wrapped around his wrist, holding fiercely, the pain is almost comforting, his neck stings when he looks up at the other man.

“You were crying out,” Thom whispers, the voice curling in his ears as it naturally should, “for help." Etchings of worry line his face, amplified by the fire that dances to one side. He glances at No One’s neck, the red lines dotting with little pinpricks of blood. The man had scratched at himself so violently that his skin had been worn away under jagged fingernails. Thom lets go of his wrist, grabbing the half full mug of water and passing it to him with care.

“And here you are.” No One leans back on the bed behind him, grabbing for Thom’s hand before the water, but swallowing the latter eagerly before abandoning the mug to one side. He can see how his fingers shake, and how they calm when they feel the warmth from the other man. “If I woke you,” No One begins, choking on the apology he’s trying to say. Orlesians didn’t apologise, they hadn’t the need when it was a mistake in the grand game. He had never learnt how to say sorry when it was needed most.

They were sat on the floor. No One must have staggered from the bed in his sleep, and Thom had followed with comfort. He could only hope whatever he had done hadn’t been too awful to see. The images of the sea of corpses still burns at the back of his mind, dozens of faces lined with ink. Was it because of Caldwell? Was that his guilt manifesting in his dreams, clan Maelarith dragging him to his death; he deserved it.

“No harm done.” Thom says, following where No One pulls him. They end up sitting side by side, touching from shoulder to hip, legs pressed against one another even with the difference in length, the warmth serves as a gentle reminder. Something to keep No One grounded in the waking world, and something to retell Thom that the man isn’t choking his way through another nightmare. “Mostly.” He adds with a bump of his shoulder, a smile working its way to his lips.

“Mostly?” No One repeats, his brow twitching upwards.

“Reckon I’ll have a few bruises the same size as your feet in a few hours.” He whispers, leaning closer to the other man. He sees No One’s shock ripple through his features, the way his eyes widen just a fraction, the parting of his lips in prelude to protest, and the way his brows pinch upwards towards one another. Thom didn’t mind the bruises, it wouldn’t be the first time he’d been injured, and it wasn’t the first time No One’s nightmares had caused him harm. But he had heard of people who walked in their sleep, though this had a touch more violence, Thom can’t imagine it to be anything else. He couldn’t blame the man for the torments that the Fade offered him.

“Shit.” He whispers, “want to kick me back or?” His words are serious and they trail off to leave the question open ended. He’ll take any punishment Thom saw fit to give.

“As tempting as that is, I’ll have to decline.” Thom lands a hand on the other man’s thigh, squeezing it with just enough pressure to relay his jest. Would that he could take away No One’s nightmares entirely. It brings him a smile made of iron, even if it is pitiful. Silence encompasses them, broken by the sound of a worried voice on the other side of the door. A scout asking Thom if he’s well, apparently No One’s voice had travelled further than they had thought.

The blonde offers him a sympathetic look after Thom has convinced the scout he isn’t dying or in need of assistance. As if it wasn’t bad enough that he was ruining Thom’s sleep, but others’ as well. He climbs back into Thom’s bed, pushing at the sheets to invite the other man back in. It’s not warm in the slightest, and he wonders just how long Thom had been out of bed and watching him struggle through the Fade.

No One pushes himself under Thom’s arm when they’re both under the covers, resting his head on his tunic-covered chest. His own arm is wedged between them awkwardly, but the other rests across his stomach, his fingers fiddling with the hem of his clothing. The steady rise and fall of his chest is comforting and is softened when Thom decides to breathe with the lower part of his torso instead, his belly taking the movement instead of where No One rests his head. If he were a man with normal respite he’d fall asleep here, lulled to sleep by Thom’s breathing, encased in everything that was him.

“What time is it?” No One whispers. Guilt rises in him, how much time had he taken from Thom, how much rest had he stolen from him? And what had he given in return for those hours but nothing.

“Fourth hour by my guess.” Thom says. There’s no fatigue in his voice, and No One glances up; his vision is obscured by the slightly flattened curls of his beard, and there’s a sorrow that brews in him, Thom wasn’t falling back asleep and he couldn’t help but blame himself. No One reaches up to scratch at his neck, itchy thing, and it’s a gentle hand that stops him in the movement. Fingers curl over his own, brought up to lips and kissed. His hand is still crusted with dried blood from yesterday, a lot cleaner since he'd dunked himself in the bath to rid himself of the mud he had fallen in.

“Tell me something about you.” No One says, pushing himself up to look at Thom’s face; a beauty that’s not lost with the shifting light. A questioning hum falls from those familiar lips, and No One finds himself trying to smooth the slight mess of Thom’s beard back into shape. “A story or something, from when you were younger, before we met.”

“I’m not the best storyteller.” His chest shakes with soft laughter, and it’s a sound that brings a growing smile to No One’s face. There was so much he didn’t know about Thom, and he had spent so long hiding what he could about himself he hadn’t thought about learning of the other man. He knew some things, he knew rather a lot, something which tended to happen in such close quarters. But there was so much he hadn’t the time to see, and there was so much he dearly wanted to.

“Doesn’t have to be the best. Learning about you; that’s something that’s going to be enjoyable, whatever it is.” He says, shifting just that bit closer. Absent lines are drawn in the creases of Thom’s night tunic, following the curves and crevices of the fabric. His hand follows them to the hem of his shirt, cold fingers slipping under to press against the swell of Thom’s gut. Curling hairs protest at the weight, bowing under No One’s palm, but there’s no other complaint at the action. “And I like your accent, it’s homely. Not Orlesian, it’s like a hearth fire, something to come home to.”

“You’re a bloody romantic.” Thom laughs, louder this time, hand reaching up to cup the back of the other man’s head. He wasn’t going to complain. There had been many comparisons to exactly what Thom Rainier was, most of them hadn’t been any good; but a hearth fire voice, that was something else. It filled his chest with warmth as if his voice was literally such a burning heat.

He thinks for a moment, what kind of memory to speak of. It wasn’t as if he could claim the most interesting life in Thedas, nobody would write entire books or sonnets about him. Liddy comes to mind, how miserable he had been at the prospect of a younger brother or sister, how much he missed her.

The tourney, when he had won the mêlée, but No One must have heard that a few times over. Thom Rainier’s story was a popular one, everyone had heard that, everyone knew of his shame. How he had sullied Blackwall’s name, taking something that wasn’t his, twisting it for his own purpose. Nowadays the name Blackwall came up and you thought of Thom Rainier, and not the man that Gordon truly was.

He hadn’t known him for so long. The man thought he had a good hand for fighting and a good heart for it too, and he must have known there was a reason he was drowning his sorrows in a seat that gave him full view of all the exits to the tavern. That hadn’t mattered to the Wardens, reasons to run away was their main filter for conscription after all.

Gordon had him catching sheep and doing odd jobs for anyone that needed them, and, he remembers with a slightly flustered breath, wanking with the older Warden watching him. Those had been some memories he was happy to keep, even if that had been the old bugger’s final journey. For the few notches on his belt made by men, he’d admit that Blackwall had been one of the better ones. Maker, but he’d never known how much he loved being told what to do and being watched and those little pet names that only came up in the most intimate of settings.

He had rambled out his sins to the other man, half hoping he’d take back what he said about doing good because Captain Thom Rainier didn’t deserve to do good back then. It was so similar to how No One had rambled out his own past. Chevalier deserter, Callier murderer, they’d both done some awful things, awful beyond words truly. Thom had cried back then too. Men were the same all over, men like the old Thom Rainier, men like No One, men like Gordon Blackwall if he’d ever had the chance to hear his own story.

“How much do you know about Blackwall?” Thom asks, feeling as if he should give the name the same kindness that the man gave him. People deserved to know about the real Blackwall, the one who went to help others regardless of what it was, a kinder man than Thom had deserved.

“Next to nothing.” No One said. He props himself up on his elbow more comfortably, waiting eagerly for the tale that was about to begin.

“I told him my name was William, didn’t want people recognising my real name. Never knew who was listening, never knew who was watching.” He admits, offering a sympathetic stroke to No One’s side. They’d both been there, No One still was, and the way his brows pinch shows him enough. Losing your name was a hard enough thing to do, being a Warden gave that back. So did cosying up to the Herald of Andraste, even if that wasn’t his intention.

He thinks for a moment of the offer that Andrastopher gave them, both of them, and whether if they had waited just a few months more if they’d have taken it. If they’d be walking around as Warden Rainier and Warden _Whoever_. No One could go back to his family dressed in those blues and silverlites, head held high for the good he was doing in this story. He wouldn’t be the first man with chevalier training in the Wardens, Thom’s sure of that.

“You sound like me.” No One whispers, not knowing whether it was the other way around or not. “But William, it suits you, aye, Billy, oui, Willy.” He sniggers, snorting slightly as Thom thwaps him with the back of his hand.

“Don’t, you bloody child.” He laughs, at least he hadn’t called himself Richard. Thom drags the other man towards him so he might lay on his chest again, mindlessly carding his fingers through No One’s hair. Those few weeks with Blackwall, they’d been good, even if the ending wasn’t the best, even if Thom Rainier had been his final chapter and there was no hope for an epilogue.

Even if he spent the next hour mumbling about Blackwall and desperately trying not to mention that he called him Lad when he sucked him off, he would do it just to prove to No One there’s something after. Something in the epilogue they both deserved, the rest they’d have from the others in Thedas. Thom lets his lips grace the top of No One’s head, and he feels the slight squeeze across his gut in response. They deserved a kindness in their last chapters, but, Maker, he wouldn’t rush there and lose the moments he had now.

Thirty-seven. Andrastopher had counted the individual beings several times, trying to get a feel for what they were. He had gotten better at it with age. At first, he had thought it might have been skill, but he knew it was only the taint getting stronger, more in tune with the rest of the shambling horde. Thirteen years out of an optimistic thirty, at least his veins hadn’t yet blackened enough to be visible through his pallid skin. By then he’d be old and crooked, darkspawn wouldn’t have much of a difficulty overwhelming him.

He counts the darkspawn again, feeling them crawling over his body, needles in the tips of his fingers, fire upon his back, water around his knees, the surge that comes with being so close. The Calling, he understands it more every day. Some nights he has to drink that awful tasting tonic just to rid himself of the nightmares, though that was something he could not blame on the advancing taint. No, it was the faces of his parents he saw, of Orlana and Oren, the face of Rendon Howe.

Thirty-seven; one alpha surrounded by a minor army of genlocks and hurlocks. No ogres or broodmothers, he doubted raw recruits could even stand the sight of such a thing. Another pressure is added, thirty-eight, but this one was different, this one was the messenger. They must have been alerted to the signal arrow he had fired last night. As brilliant as locating one another through the taint was, they still needed a way to convey they wanted to meet. He would have to leave the camp for a few hours when the recruits were sleeping off the Joining concoction.

The darkspawn gathering was an hour away on horseback, but they would only ride for part of that. He would leave Oscar to tend the horses, and he would venture into the blighted area on foot, four to one he would strike them down. A deep breath expands his chest, feeling the constriction of the leather shoulder brace that masquerades as armour, and digs his fingers into the belts that line his legs. Sturdy braces, hand crafted to support his weight and keep his legs working as they should, metal and leather hidden skilfully beneath his Warden uniform. Riding on horseback for the last week had grated his hips into something of a consistent grinding pain. He couldn’t blame that on the taint either.

Andrastopher shifts on the stump of the old tree, counting out the empty vials he had in front of him. They’d all been washed, cleaned of anything that might linger, and dried in the morning sun with an old rag. He dropped an empty pendant vial into each of them, the chain rattling as it finds a home within the glass. There were enough, he would have to ask Master Erhard if he would have some more crafted. These weren’t things that common Wardens carried, more so was the silver chalice and the vial of blood he kept encased in an enchanted unbreakable bottle; archdemon blood.

That dragon corpse had been hard enough to move, they’d debated for long enough that a mage Warden from Orlais had ridden to the battlefield and had just been in time to collect several buckets of the rare ingredient. The last blight was four ages ago, and there were only a handful of mages in all of Thedas who could increase the tainted potency of blood enough for it to mimic that of an archdemon. The remainder of the beast had been burnt, though some scavengers had made off with strips of hide and scales. More fool them.

With a deep breath and a roll of his shoulders he returns everything back to its original place. Vials back in their boxes, necklaces held in a small satchel, the silver chalice held softly in a crafted velvet inlay. Carrying it around was a chore, and most Senior Wardens would wait until they could return to a large Warden encampment to execute the Joining. But Andrastopher didn’t sit well with the idea; waiting until they could be in the comforts of home before undertaking the second trial, that wasn’t a Warden’s life.

He threads the leather belt through the handles of the box, buckling it in a way that keeps it flat against his upper back, and returns to the group. They’re all waiting for him, both eager and patient. This morning he had explained they would all commit to their Joinings later this afternoon, and he had gauged who would be the most excited of them. It boded well if you believed the taint was likely to choose them on how valiant they were and not on genetic makeup. Andrastopher was firmly amongst the latter, though nobody had yet been able to figure out why some could survive and others couldn’t.

“Here, you can ask him yourself.” Lei huffs, standing and brushing down his breeches. They’d only taken a moment to rest their legs and to relieve themselves. But the young man looked irritated enough with Colt’s pleading stare.

“If you have questions now is the time to ask them.” Andrastopher says, ensuring everything on his saddle was as it was before he went off alone. Nobody had been going through his things. If there was dissent in the group he would rather it be sorted before they engaged with the darkspawn, or at least he’d like to know all about it so that he’d be prepared for infighting on the field.

“No, it’s, it’s not important.” Colt shrugs, fiddling with his own saddle for something for his hands to do. He sends Lei enough of a look that the other man rolls his eyes in silent agreement.

“It was important enough to ask Lei to ask me.” He glances between both men, one clearly more embarrassed than the other, clearly more desperate for this all to end right at this moment.

“He wants to know the rules on relationships in the Grey Wardens.” Quincy says, chewing on her tongue in annoyance. She must have overheard them talking, and from Colt’s wide-eyed expression he hadn’t been kind with his voice. Colt’s attraction to Kina hadn’t been well hidden, and Kina’s clear attraction to Quincy hadn’t either. Neither of the two women seemed remotely inclined towards men in any capacity, and Colt’s chances only seemed to slim by the second.

“So long as it’s consensual and doesn’t grant those of a lower rank the benefits of someone of a higher rank it’s entirely welcomed.” Andrastopher explains without any issue, it was a widely asked question amongst recruits, if only because they had something of an attraction to someone else in their Joining party or wanted a family at some point. Of course, he couldn’t tell them about the issues of trying for children with a Grey Warden, more so if both parents were so tainted. Odd that a child in the womb can fight off the taint when some of the strongest grown warriors could not.

The thought brings him unpleasantly to Kieran, the boy would have to die at some point, and it would be a Warden’s arrow that struck him down. He had hoped the boy would have died when he had plunged a dagger into Morrigan’s belly, but she must have left him somewhere safe, and had healed herself with whatever blood magic she claimed not to know. Andrastopher’s decision had been hasty, but he had not been ready to die for a world that wouldn’t thank him. Not when the Howes could still draw breath.

“Really?” Colt frowns, obviously expecting a different answer. The Warden Commander wasn’t surprised, there were a great many organisations that restricted such things. Widespread Andrastinism promoted sex only after a wedding ceremony, and vows of chastity were almost forced upon templars and initiates of the chantry, even the Qun had restrictions on sexual impulses. Anything that went against these types of ideals were often branded unsavoury. Which was something that easily summed up the army of thieves and murderers.

“We don’t stand to gain anything from being celibate.” He says, knowing that the future might be slightly noisier than usual; it wasn’t as if he hadn’t noticed Quincy and Kina trying desperately not to be caught looking at the other, by the other. Despite what he might exude, he hoped they found happiness in each other. So rare was it to find something, someone, to live for.

“What about you?” He asks.

“What about me?” Andrastopher repeats, pausing in his motions, thinking carefully over how this conversation can work in his favour. They were talking about sex, relationships, something that Oscar had wanted from him, something that had made him feel like a spurned lover over whatever fling he had imagined between him and Lei.

“Are you, ah, I mean, since you’re Warden Commander, do you have-” Kina begins to babble needlessly when everyone turns to look at her, all wondering exactly what she was asking. Propositioning the Warden Commander? Asking him if he had certain inclinations, asking him if he was engaging in certain explicit activities. The list of theories only got worse as the seconds went by and Kina started several more sentences.

“Stop.” He snaps. Pity would work, he thinks, an opportunity for Oscar to comfort an upset lover, something to make it seem as if Andrastopher needs him. The word brings the recruits to a standstill, several of them halfway up on their horses and the others freezing as they adjusted themselves. All of them had gotten used to the stoic voice of their superior, there had only been a handful of times when his voice had risen, and even then, it had been a strong reprimand at best. Nothing like this, nothing like a sharp desperation, a dagger of fury, something cutting through them all like an arrow of blinding light.

“Ser?” Annelise says carefully, questioning the slight outburst. She was probably the only one who was willing to stand toe to toe with him in an argument. The others either feared him or respected him too much to do such a thing.

“I’ve no need to announce my intimacies to the world.” Andrastopher breathes in deeply through his nose, offering something of a pathetic look to Oscar as he saddles his horse. He makes it look as if he’s hiding his feelings, trying to mask his discomfort at the conversation. It would be too obvious to turn back to them to see if they had taken the bait, though there was little chance that they wouldn’t. The scout had something of a soft spot inside of him, a kindness, and Andrastopher would drink from it deeply until the well inside ran dry.

It was easiest to lie when you kept as close to the truth as possible. That was something that he had learnt quickly. The idea of keeping his sex life to himself was something that was entirely truthful. Fergus had been the handsome brother, the one who stood at a normal height, and had the normal interests of a young nobleman. Andrastopher was the giant child, with a protruding forehead and a protruding chin that made his nose look abominably flat, hands and feet just a little too large, far more interested in reading about women than meeting them.

Rumours and gossip hadn’t been hard to overhear. Not from the least amicable of guests; those who wondered just how big his hands were, whether certain parts were just as large as the rest of him. They had sniggered at the thought of bedding him, even those who were prospected wives. Some were aghast at the thought of it, _lie back and think of Ferelden_ , and some were only there to laugh at the idea of it all. It hadn’t been any wonder that Zevran’s attempts of flattery had fallen as flat as Andrastopher’s features.

“We should be on our way.” Andrastopher says, his voice returned to normal. He spurs his horse to start a slow walk, turning back only to count those who follow him. A glance catches Oscar’s eyes, and the scout looks worried, almost guiltily so. Andrastopher continues to face forward, keeping silent as he rode on, thankfully Lei rode beside him and accepted the Commander’s silence for what it was even if he didn’t know the truth behind it.

Woodlands keep them steady on their track, it’s only one time that Andrastopher dismounts to carve through an overgrown bushel so the horses might pass. The trees birth the way for wide open hills yet unclaimed for housing or farmland. If the Bannorn could unite and agree on something, the land would most likely become a new section under a new Lord. He had put the idea forth for New Lothering. Some agreed wholeheartedly, it was a nice little village before it succumbed to the taint, but most didn’t want the reminder of the blight etched onto every map they bought.

Andrastopher had even offered the name to Marcus Hawke before proposing it at the yearly landsmeet. _Champion’s Rest_ might be goading the chantry just a little bit too much, and he had true ties to the little village. But Lothering hadn’t been a safe haven for mages, not like Champion’s Rest is. The little village just north of Old Lothering composed of mostly mages and their families. Though you wouldn’t be able to tell that just by looking at them.

The journey over some of the hills was the most open they had been in a while, and Andrastopher’s hood is pulled up over his head; they’d spot him as a Warden from far enough away, but the hood was something of a comfort. They chatter as they ride, avoiding the subject of relationships entirely, but other things begin to rise to the surface.

Annelise tells them of bandit raids, and how open spaces were usually safer to travel than wooded areas. It was notoriously harder to sneak up on someone when you’re in an area with no cover, and these hills were too flat to lie on an incline before springing up to attack. The whole story brings the group some comfort, and Lei stops himself from explaining how clan Mi’Durgen dealt with wide open spaces such as these. People might have seen them coming, but they’d swarm caravans and riders’ groups without fault.

Colt seems the quietest of all of them, and both Kina and Quincy obviously have an issue with him. There wasn’t time to sort it out now; he could feel the thirty-seven gathering and moving around, they must have felt him approaching. Andrastopher leans down to unhook his bow from the saddle, laying it across his lap without drawing too much attention. Lei offers a raised brow at the action, and his obvious discomfort is enough to bring the group back to their surroundings.

When they breach back into the thicker trees Andrastopher dismounts, calling for Oscar who’s more than happy to jolt his horse to stand beside him. There’s a lingering touch between them when reigns are passed over, and a command is whispered and approved. A worried question rests on the scout’s lips, but it isn’t given voice.

“Oscar will take the horses, we’re on foot from here on out.” He says. Two swords are pulled from under bound cloth, their belt and sheaths carefully buckled around Andrastopher’s waist and hips, and he whistles sharply to his mabaris. He points to Oscar and they bark in agreement; Oaklain is nipped at until he falls back in line. If Lei survives his Joining then Oaklain would be his tonight, and if not, then Oaklain will grieve, but he will remain.

The recruits begin to titter at the weapons Andrastopher takes with him, surely it couldn’t be worse than the Pride they had fought. Yet, nerves swelled inside of them, and it was obvious in how slowly they pulled their own weapons from their saddles. Andrastopher is greeted by several panicked faces, all finding the surrounding area a touch too interesting. He couldn’t blame them for their anxiety, that was the most natural reaction to such a thing. During his own Joining he had felt nothing but anger, and a desire to smash Duncan’s face in with that bloody silver chalice. Simpler times, and odd how things had ended up. It wasn’t so hard to imagine some of these wanting to greet him with the silver chalice in the same way.

It wasn’t such a long journey on foot until they came to the mouth of the cave, and at the sight of such a thing, a small opening that wouldn’t even fit two abreast, it made their fears rise just that bit further. Branching vines lined either side of it, hanging down to almost to obscure the entrance, and deep mushrooms offered an odd blue glow that was barely visible in the afternoon sun. The cave was a popular place for caches and smuggler’s trade, evident by the crudely drawn symbol just to the left of it, and the pile of rocks left by the Chasind.

The floor around the cave wasn’t so freshly scuffed, and the stones stacked to one side had been buffed by wind and toppled. Nobody should be inside, nobody but the darkspawn soon to be felled. He counts them once more, the daggers that etch across his skin; thirty-seven and the messenger far off in the other direction. He’d be able to feel the Joining even from so far away, another curse of the hivemind that the taint offered. Every Joining that they could sense, they felt that stab when the new blood is introduced, and they felt the agony when that blood won out and killed the Warden.

“This is the first part to your Joining, if you have any doubts, this is the last chance you have to leave.” Andrastopher states, once they’re all listening and the horses are secured several minutes away. “There is no judgement on your decision.” It’s not something offered to the recruits by everyone, but Andrastopher kept his knowledge close enough to his chest that the recruits could leave at the last moment should they choose too.

There’s a ripple that spreads through the recruits. The same that spreads through soldiers the moment before battle, when a hand on their shoulder is the only thing stopping them from fleeing. An utterance of agreement comes across them all, some readjust their weapons, some square their shoulders, some look just as terrified as they had done before. None of them had any idea what to expect; and this was the easier part.

“We’re all ready, Ser.” Lei says, tightening the strap which kept his shield upon his arm. Half of them are just as determined as Lei, and it suits him, how well they fall in line behind him. He wasn’t a natural leader, not one who knew how to control his people, to manipulate them, he was better than that. Lei was the kind to lead from the front, to encourage them with charisma, charm, and a pretty sight. A leader that was made, a leader who was crafted by his peers, and a leader that was, more importantly, chosen by all.

Andrastopher lets them settle themselves as he pulls the box from his back, making sure to hide the contents from them as he takes out the vials. One is gifted to each recruit, and they stare at the empty glass in confusion. He settles everything back into the box and straps it once more to his back.

“In this cave there are thirty-seven darkspawn, and each of you is required to fill a vial with darkspawn blood.” Andrastopher says, watching the reactions carefully. “I’ll be in there with you.” He adds, trying to comfort those who seem more fearful. Colt is terrified, and even Kina’s slight shuffle to stand closer to Quincy is noticeable. It was custom for a Warden to go with them, and Andrastopher was the only one near enough. He had also spent the first few hours of morning light brewing the base for the concoction they would drink later, he wouldn’t lose any of them to infection before their time.

“Why do we need the blood?” Dian asks, holding her own vial up to the sun, it glints like it’s polished. She’s the only one who checks the small object for damage, checking for cracks and things that could lead to breakages and the spilling of blood.

“It is as much a test to prove you can kill them as it is anything else.” He explains, holding up a hand to stop the rest of the protests falling in. “That’s all I can say.” Nobody wanted to be up close and personal with one of those monsters, and nobody wanted to be there long enough to drain some of their blood.

“What if we can’t get any?” Lawrence asks, thinking more practically than the rest of them. There was nothing to say the darkspawn wouldn’t turn tail and run when they saw them, though it was highly unlikely.

“You will.” He states.

“Is this not too dangerous of a test?” Xanthe asks, glancing pointedly towards Kina. The young elf had taken a tumble with the last demon they had fought, struggling to overpower the thing with far too many limbs. Dian had been there to hack away a few of it’s arms before Colt had shot it three times before catching it between it’s many eyes.

“It is the same test every Grey Warden before you has accomplished.” He states his words again.

“But, what if we die in there?” Colt asks.

“Then you die.” He states his words once more. It stands as the final word on the subject and doesn’t do anything to soothe the recruits. A stunning revelation on exactly how dangerous the task they’re about to undertake is; this wasn’t a controlled test, this wasn’t a spar in the cells of Skyhold, this was a fight, one in which they could all fail quite fatally in.

Most Warden Recruiters tended to coddle their initiates, to give them hope in the battle, to be valiant and heroic. But that’s what got people killed. Idiots who stayed behind, to keep the enemy at bay, to give someone else the chance to escape. Sacrifices that hadn’t needed to be made. Andrastopher gave them the truth because that is what they deserved, perhaps not what they wanted nor what they needed, but it was imperative that they had it. He didn’t want to give them reasons to run away, but he didn’t want them to be so optimistic they couldn’t flee should they need to.

No One and Thom had eventually pulled themselves out of bed, though only the latter had something of a fatigued slump to his frame. The blonde had offered to leave for the rest of the morning, to give him a chance of getting a few more hours, but he had denied him. The feeling of being so close to the other man, even with his jagged frame of sharp edged bones, it was nice to be near it. It wasn’t as if he was going to get any more sleep after he had seen what he had.

He usually walked the room, it’s the reason why he’d left the fire guard in place. He’d usually stop at a wall huffing with deep breaths, mumbling and moving sluggishly, but last night had been so different. No One had kicked fiercely in his sleep, a particular jolt to his knee woke him up abruptly. Thom had tried to wake the other man in return, and eventually just sat on the settee opposite, wondering when his thrashing would stop. Then he had rolled out of bed, the slap of skin landing on the stone had woken Thom again having dozed off where he sat, but No One had remained unblissful in his sleep.

His back had arched as he rolled, ribs popping from his skin and his gut taut. No One began grabbing for whatever he could, uncontrolled limbs smacking into the bed frame, the chest at his head, the empty chamber pot sent skidding across the floor. Thom didn’t know what to do, whether it was appropriate to drag the man to somewhere less crowded, but he’d got a foot in his chest when he’d approached. It was enough to knock the air from his lungs, and he spent a minute or two trying to get back to normal when he realised that No One wasn’t breathing either.

He was red-faced, clutching at his neck, twisting so that he was crouched on his knees, voicing his strangled cries for help. Thom could see the tendons in his neck when he had grabbed for No One’s wrists. He’d thought about slapping him awake or throwing the jug of water over him, something to get him to waken. But a breath had been ripped into his lungs, and Thom felt his own exhale deeply when he saw the whites of the other man’s eyes. Maker’s balls, but he had felt so helpless. How was he supposed to help the man fight his own bloody dreams?

The memory had been soothed when the man didn’t seem any worse for wear, and any injuries could be blamed on Caldwell throwing him down the stairs yesterday. But Thom felt a puddle of uselessness inside of him, even when No One laughed it off, kissing him in the morning when they both had cleaner teeth. The blonde seemed better for having heard about Blackwall, and he could find comfort in that. But still, he needed to get something out of his system, and he knew the best man for it.

Bull swung for him eagerly, the wooden staff clacking against Thom’s own. He’d originally wanted shields, but the Qunari had guessed he was looking for something more physical than just standing there and enduring. Suffice to say, Bull wasn’t wrong all that often. There were others sparring, and some were even putting on a show for the Inquisitor who watched sullenly; his arm still resting in a sling. He’d be out of it soon, and then he’d wanted to get back to the Emprise du Lion for those dragons.

The Iron Bull was excited for that, he’d been miserable having to leave without carving through them but that bridge needed to be built before they could access them safely. Imshael hadn’t helped in the slightest, though Goddard was the only one still healing from the whole ordeal. It would only be a few weeks until he was fighting fit again, and the man seemed eager enough for that.

The staff isn’t Thom’s favourite weapon, it’s something he’d grab if he didn’t have anything else at hand, but he’s better with almost everything else. Still, he kept his own in the fight. Dodging Bull’s attacks, rolling and diving when the other man lunged. He’d left his coat on the edge of the sparring ring, and his tunic was sticking to him uncomfortably with sweat. Thom couldn’t say he wasn’t beginning to feel better for the exhaustion that prickles at his muscles.

He reached down to pull it from his skin, then Bull had spun him until his back was pressed to his chest and the wooden staff was pinning him there by the neck. Thom struggled for a moment, the booming joy of Bull shaking through his back.

“Come on, Thom, you know better than that.” Bull laughs, shoving him away and resting for a moment. He can see bruises through the tunic, and it’s questionable enough for him to prod the other man with the end of his sparring staff when they stand to go again. “You want some pointers on that?”

“On what?” He huffs. It wasn’t as if he adjusted his clothes amidst battle, he wasn’t so Orlesian inclined to do such a thing. Being alive and underdressed was better than dead in pressed finery. He’d fought naked a few times, waking up in the middle of the night and having to fend for himself didn’t leave him any time to get back into his clothes.

“The bruises, didn’t realise you had it in you, big guy.” He says, tapping at his own chest with a clawed thumb.

“Bugger, they’re coming up already?” He pulls at the collar of his tunic, his chest splotched with noticeable purple. Air rushes under his clothes, clutching at him with icy hands, and it soothes his skin for just a moment. Thom would rather be able to claim the same bruises he had left on No One’s chest, at least that could be explained by a smirk hidden in ale. “It’s not… whatever you think it is.” He pulls a face, wondering who gets off by being kicked in the chest.

“Then what is it?” He sniffs, anchoring the staff in the mud beside him. Bull wasn’t going to carry on unless he heard more from Thom, and he sees the other man sigh in defeat. He knew a lot more than he was letting on, that much was obvious by the turmoil in his face, but he was holding his tongue.

“It’s,” Thom chews on his inner cheek, scratching behind his ear and thinking for a minute. Bull was Ben-Hassrath, the guy knew how to read anyone. He knows he has to pick his words carefully so as not to reveal anything, but the words he doesn’t choose are going to be telling the other man everything anyway. “No One has night terrors.” He shrugs, Bull wouldn’t be able to decipher much from that, surely.

“He thrashing?” A sympathy rises in Bull’s tone, lowering his voice and stepping closer. He had been there too, there’s scarce a man who could claim never to have had such a thing lately.

“And more.” He huffs. The memory from this morning burned into his mind, it wouldn’t be something soon forgotten. No One had tugged a thick woollen scarf around his neck to hide the scratching, and the druffalo wool blanket was abandoned and tattered with clumps of dried mud. The man still refused boots and a coat, Maker knows how he manages in such cold weather. Even with the budding warmth of spring only just beginning to dabble in the mountain air it was still awfully chilly.

“I knew there was a reason you needed to hit something. Can’t fight what’s in _his_ mind.” Bull takes up the staff once more, wringing it in his hands to ensure a steadier grip.

“Something like that.” Thom says softly, raising both eyebrows defeatedly. He pulls at his clothes once more, shrugging them into something more comfortable before dropping into a more offensive stance. The expected dance doesn’t begin when Bull shifts his weight, the staff prodding at the ground once more. Thom’s shoulders drop when he sees the other man isn’t ready to fight, the sweat was beginning to dry across him and he could feel the mountain air beginning to bite him.

“You asked him about them? Can’t keep it all inside.” He scratches at the edges of his eye patch, adjusting the strap that holds it on his head. Bull hopes that Thom might let something slip, even the tiniest piece of information would be brilliant. It wasn’t so hard to realise exactly how Thom had managed to lie about who he was for so many years, he had a knack for keeping secrets well hidden.

“This is No One.” Thom laughs, “I know enough to guess what it’s about, and when he wants to tell me he can, I’ll be ready to listen.” He glances away as he says it, embarrassed almost by the confession. How long would he wait to hear certain things from No One’s lips? But what a sweet delay that would be.

“Sap.” Bull snorts, wringing his staff once more and moving to circle Thom.

“Look who’s talking, we’ve all seen the way you watch Dorian.” He gestures to him with a grin, happier now they’ll be sparring again. A sensation of lightness had begun to fill him; talking about his fears concerning No One, it made him feel better. There was so much he couldn’t say, and the burden of bearing all that knowledge. Well, Thom wouldn’t call it a burden at all.

“Hah, _everyone_ watches Dorian.” Bull says, voice lower and rumbling from his chest. He false swings with the bottom of his staff, switching directions and attempting to come down hard upon Thom’s shoulder. It’s seen through easily enough, deflected and parried with an attempted jab. The Qunari was faster than his large frame belies, but so was Thom.

Bull thinks over the conversation as they spar. Pulling apart the words for any meaning they could have. No One’s nightmares were violent, vicious enough that he could kick Thom in the chest with enough strength to bruise him so colourfully. There was power in his legs, to do such damage was something, to do it whilst asleep was something else entirely. Bull wouldn’t have put him down as a warrior, not with how slim and light he was. But a warrior with several years of muscle wasting, that would make sense.

He knew No One had met Thom in a cell, and he’d been thrown in one here in Skyhold. The man could have spent years in a prison to cause a loss of figure, whether it was a legal prison or simply held captive. Bull would have Leliana look at missing persons reports over the last few decades, there might be a connection there within the list of Adeline’s siblings. Being held against his will would be enough to cause nightmares, he had seen the flayed skin at the back of his neck, perhaps he was held and tortured; Bull had seen exactly what that could do to someone’s mind. The only question that brings is why. He was noble, Orlesian, he could be someone of the highest classes. Someone who’d make good coin on being ransomed.

It wasn’t the only thing he concentrated on. The fact that Thom had slowly been whittling away at No One’s emotional defences, enough to believe that the man would eventually tell him everything. Bull knew it was only a matter of time before something slipped out. He would grab it with both hands, divesting it of every meaning until he could find out exactly who this man was.

Andrastopher felt the clear-headedness that came with vanquishing darkspawn, nothing to cloud his mind and pinch at his skin. The fight had gone well, thirty-seven hadn’t been slain, but the few that remained once the Alpha had been killed had scattered quickly enough. They had burnt the bodies, piling them together and getting rid of their remains. It was something which allowed the Grey Wardens to distance themselves from the darkspawn, their victims were given pyre, and not left to rot or taken to eat or turn.

He was thankful for the headache that had left him, sitting off to one side and finishing the preparations to the cocktail they’d all be drinking. The iron tang of blood was heavy in his nose, more so the stench of vomit which still hadn’t come off his boot. He had half a mind to send Lawrence to wash it off since it came from him, but the Templar still seemed queasy after seeing darkspawn for the first time. Perhaps he should have shown them his sketches, to give them an idea of how monstrous they truly were.

But there was little use in looking to what things he could have done. Andrastopher returns to grinding the clutch of roots down to a finer powder. He stuck one undamaged root in his mouth, the smell was potent enough to cover the blood and the vomit, even if it wasn’t so nice in itself. Tasted sweet though, he had to remember it increased blood flow in certain conditions to stop himself from chewing on it. Andrastopher spat it out quietly when he heard footsteps approaching.

“Andras.” Oscar said, taking a seat beside him on the ground, pulling at the hardened skin around the edges of his nails. The use of his first name was a good thing to hear, it meant he had a way back in with the younger man. He doesn’t mention the smell of vomit, but his hooked nose wrinkles at the stench.

“Scout Oscar.” He keeps his words short, keeping his eyes on the powder. It was used to help the blood infect the body quicker, a slower infection gave the body more chance of rejecting the taint, fighting against it and killing the Warden. How that knowledge came about wasn’t to Andrastopher’s knowing, but he’s glad he wasn’t the one they experimented on.

“Earlier, when Kina asked you about-” His words are softened, albeit accentuated by how his fingers twist around each other. The scout was still uncertain, and with how Andrastopher had reacted to it, it was obvious he wasn’t here to fight with him.

“I’d rather not talk about it.” He offers something of a polite smile but worries his lower lip just slightly. Oscar was incredibly perceptive, perhaps not perceptive enough to see through Andrastopher’s lies, but he could read expressions like few others.

“Is it a physical issue?” The scout asks, glancing at the roots he had in a small open pouch. He knew enough of herbal remedies to know what kind of effect those things could have. It makes a tinge of red come to his cheeks, wondering if he had read the man wrong and he was just preparing something so he could engage with Lei. The thought is souring, but he keeps it to himself. He wasn’t here to scold the man, he only wanted to see if he was fine.

“I’m entirely functional,” Andrastopher says, pausing for a moment, “partially.” He whispers, just loud enough for Oscar to hear. It was a comforting thought to know that the man had done exactly as Andrastopher had predicted, but that he was the kind of person to go above personal grudges in order to help. He almost began to feel guilty for how he had strung Oscar along, taunting him with the idea of a loving relationship. But it was necessary, and if the war he and Leliana engaged in had causalities then it would be her hands who bore the blood.

“Andras, there’s no shame in age.” He laughs, chewing his lip when the Warden Commander glances his way. Laughing wasn’t going to help the man, especially not if Andrastopher thought he was laughing at him.

“It’s not age,” He says matter-of-factly, “it’s potency, amongst other things.” It’s an admittance he doesn’t make often, he hadn’t ever needed to. The last time he had slept with a woman was with Morrigan, who had assured him that as long as he could finish within her, she’d be pregnant by the morning. Before that he had spent long enough failing to get his wife pregnant that she had suffered for it. Everyone had blamed her for it, telling Andrastopher to divorce her and have another wife who was wholly more fertile. He wouldn’t have any of it, and if they were barren, then they were barren.

A healer had eventually come to them with a different idea on things, and found out that Annette was entirely healthy, which could only mean that it was Andrastopher who had something of a fertility issue. The news hadn’t been nice to hear, not only was he something of a malformation on the outside, he was as such on the inside as well. The idea of being childless because of his own body didn’t settle well within him, and neither did his sympathetic hypocrisy.

“Oh.” Oscar says, his eyebrows raising slightly. He frowns a moment in confusion, _amongst other things_ , his lips voice to ask the question but he can’t seem to find the right words to speak.

“My ex-wife is five foot and five inches tall.” Andrastopher says, abandoning the mortar and pestle for the moment, the roots had been ground down enough and he didn’t particularly want to do the rest of this with an audience. It was breaching enough that Oscar had seen at least two of the ingredients for the drink.

“ _Oh_.” Oscar says again, eyebrows raising once more. The height wasn’t something short for a woman, but compared to the Warden Commander, he’d be hunched over and bending down often enough just to kiss her. It wasn’t hard to see how the height might prove to be something of a curious issue, especially in the bedroom. “I can imagine that-”

“Don’t. I’ve had enough of people imagining how exactly they’d bed a man eight foot tall.”

“Quite comfortably, I suppose.” He says after a moment of thought. Oscar offers something of a smile, a hint of desire in his eyes. Oh, he had thought about it, many times. “I’ll let you carry on with your preparations, and I’ll be comfortably banished to my tent for the rest of the night.” He stands and brushes the dirt from his arse, shocked when a hand grabs his own. Fingers squeeze his, and he feels warmth in those fingertips.

“Sleep well, Oscar.” Andrastopher lets the hand go, reaching for the ground powder. He pauses as he glances at the next ingredient, sucking on his tongue for a moment; he was getting old, and he was beginning to feel guilty. Only the smallest of seeds had been sown inside of him, yet they would grow. Was it not the role of kind men to be ruled by those stronger; to be used and exhausted of their values until nothing was left? The Qun would have him believe as such, everyone had their place in the world, but this was not Oscar’s. To use him for something so small and insignificant when he was so close to Leliana, there was so much more the man could do.

When they reach Amaranthine he’ll deny Oscar whatever relationship he wanted. It wasn’t as if he wanted the man back, his heart still solely belonged to Zevran, but breaking him didn’t serve as much purpose as he had originally convinced himself it had. He was getting complacent in his old age, and he hated it. Zevran would find it comical, he’d probably tell him he had always had something of sympathy within, and the former was the only idea that could soothe him.

“And you, Andras.” He bows as he walks away. A lightness makes its home in his gut, walking back to the group of recruits and finding refuge in his tent. They all bade him goodnight and lowered their chatter so that the scout may get some rest.

Perhaps he had been wrong about the Warden Commander and the young Lei. He had never seen them flirting prior to whatever looks passed between them. Oscar had been here for far longer and had been the recipient of some very obvious touches; albeit as small as they were. The scout wonders for a moment if the man’s reluctance had something to do with his body. Average height wasn’t something the man could claim to own, and it was said that in those first moments of intimacy that everything could be linked back to right then and there.

Andrastopher could simply be a nervous lover, though the image didn’t suit him. But Oscar had seen a softer side to him before, something that he had not seen since joining this Warden’s expedition. A smile creeps upon his face, Andras could be a romantic a heart, someone who wanted the first to be perfect beyond sanity.

The tavern was filled with a group of guffawing soldiers, and several rounds of Joyous Nameday had filled the room. Each time the words got sloppier and sloppier, fuelled with heavy wines and thick brandies. It was putting off some of the other patrons, but No One felt a smile inseparable from his face. Unabashed delight like this; soldiers had their own way of celebrating. In a flicker of nostalgia, he remembers his own days at the Academie, the more they drank the less they cared about the quality; it wasn’t deemed a good celebration until someone was chugging flophouse moonshine and calling it the finest Cireron whiskey.

They were always charged over the odds, but nobody would go back the next day to get their coin back. That would mean admitting they’d been in those kinds of taverns, and that would be damaging enough than having to take coin back from the poor. Insulting in the way that the rich apparently needed the coin more than them, not the fact they were taking from the slums. He must have been insufferable.

Thom joins him again at the bar, having left before for a piss, a hand placed on his lower back in greeting as he takes the stool No One had kept for him. They had a small pan for playing dice in, and No One was easily winning. It wasn’t as if they had much to bet, more over they were just buying drinks with Thom’s coin and making the loser drink. Which meant Thom was thoroughly getting sloshed and getting touchier with every swallow he took.

Hands on his thighs, boots tapping at his ankles, fingers constantly gracing him. Thom was pissed, and No One couldn’t lose fast enough to keep up with him. He was half perched in Thom’s lap, a hand around his waist to keep them both steady. Though No One knows he’s propping the other man up more than he is for him.

“You’re a bloody cheat.” Thom huffs. His hand runs the length of the inside of No One’s thigh, squeezing midway, fingers only tentatively moving towards his cock. They’re at an angle where most of the customers are to their backs, but No One reaches down and takes the hand in his own. He imagines himself as a tavern wench for a moment, getting a man drunk and sitting in his lap. The thought makes him laugh, how often he’d been on the other end of this, a hand up someone’s skirt, chuckling into a hefty cleavage.

“It’s dice.” He kisses the side of Thom’s forehead, leading his hand to pick them up and take his turn.

“Hm, weighted dice.” He holds them in his palm for a moment, squinting at them, he’s sober enough to know they’re not weighted. Thom drops them in the pan and turns to look at No One, his iron caps peeking out from scarred lips. He reaches up to smooth the length of his moustache, one side is thicker, for the scar that denies the growth of hair. It’s a ridiculous thing. Thom has seen No One lifting it out of the way so he can roll over in bed without it pulling at his upper lip, the man even pulls it from the collar of his too big tunic when he dresses in the morning. Still, he wouldn’t deny it looked good on him. He’d bet it looked good trailing across his back with No One’s cock inside of him. Thom hums and leans into the other man, groaning at the lower score of his dice. He’d lost _again_.

“I’m just good with my hands, is all.” He whispers, biting the shell of Thom’s ear. The responding squeeze to his waist brings him closer, and it’s at this moment Thom wishes he hadn’t drank so much. If he could get hard with all this alcohol in him it’d be a blessing, and finishing, that would damn near be a miracle. The knowledge doesn’t stop him from taking another swig, having already switched to a lighter ale instead of whiskey.

No One feels the familiar scratch of paper being slipped into his clothes, and he bites his tongue in anticipation; something from the Piss Merchant. Which meant information on Cousland, he sucks his tongue and scratches at the paper, making sure it’s secure so it won’t fall out when he moves. It could also be another contract to pay for the information, but he’s in a good enough mood to imagine it’s the former. He picks up the dice and throws them, grinning at Thom’s groan when he’s scored high for yet another turn.

The thrill of being able to get back at that bastard brings a grin to his lips that he hides behind his ale. They didn’t have to lose to drink. He’d get what was coming to him as soon as he got back to Skyhold. It serves him right trying to poison him, Cousland made an enemy he didn’t want. No One wraps an arm around Thom’s shoulders, shifting himself closer and leaning his head on the other man’s.

“I’m going to take a piss.” He kisses the top of his head and detangles himself. Thom pulls him back in for a proper kiss, one hand reaching for the back of his head to force their open mouths closer. He takes of whiskey and ale and lyrium, No One sucks on Thom’s tongue for a moment before pulling away. A daze clouds Thom’s eyes, and he keeps their fingers entwined as long as he can whilst No One walks away.

The cold air outside is bracing, and he tugs the woollen scarf over his head and pulls the cuffs of his shirt over his hands. Bloody moonlight, he needed that blanket back. He wanders a little further than the others who had decided to empty themselves against a wall and pulls both himself and that letter out. With a quick glance around, he makes sure nobody is too close, and it’s dark enough even he would have to squint at it to read.

No One unfolds the paper carefully with one hand, whistling to cover the sound. It’s coded as usual, and it takes a few seconds of rooting in his memory to decipher it all. He was expecting a cache drop or a list of information, not this. The Piss Monger had taken the payment from Ser Ancel’s contract, which was to be expected, and the rest had been paid with the lives of three Children and a refusal of information. Something had gone wrong. Something had gone terribly wrong. He wasn’t getting anything for that bastard Ancel who had opened something within him, and three people had died trying to wring information from Cousland’s associates.

He rereads the letter, had he deciphered it wrong? No, he chews his cheeks almost painfully, scrubbing at his scalp with irritation. Whatever ammunition he had against Cousland had slipped from his fingers in less than a day. Caldwell hated him, the young man wouldn’t listen, and now the Family had failed him. Hope to be rid of Cousland’s leash abandons him entirely. No One shoves himself back into his breeches, fiddling with the cursed letter. It had dampened his night like nothing else could.

He makes his way to the blacksmith’s forge, glad to find the embers still burning, and tosses the letter inside. The words made him feel miserable, furious at himself. There must be another way to get himself rid of the Warden Commander, short of killing him nothing springs to mind. But he’s not tempted to go down on a murder charge when he’s got Thom waiting in the tavern for him. The letter is burnt in the fire, and he waits until nothing is left before he leaves.

Part of him wants to know exactly what happened for the Piss Merchant to pull out of a deal like this. It wasn’t as if the man would send dozens of men for one contract until he succeeded, he’d be a fool if he did, be he should have at least tried. No One was important to him, he was Dog, the only one who offered a certain ideal to be met, and he was paying for this in blood. He supposed he should be thankful the Piss Merchant hadn’t send a bill for the three lives lost. Though the man cared little for corpses, and if they didn’t survive then what use were they? Or, at least that is what he said to him. There was little else at that point that could make No One feel less significant at that moment, but that sentence had kicked him one rung lower.

Thom is standing outside of the tavern when No One gets back. The air seems to be hitting him hard as he scrubs at his face, offering a blurry smile to No One when he spots him jogging over.

“You went far.” He says, grabbing for No One’s hands, those which were offered instantly. It’s a question even if it wasn’t posed as one.

“I’m barefoot,” No One shrugs, hands running the length of Thom’s arms until they clapped against his cheeks, an eyebrow is raised in another question; “stepping in piss is about as fun as it sounds.” The other man laughs heartily, his face squashed awkwardly between No One’s hands only makes it more amusing. He leans down to kiss the other man, lining his body with his own, pushing him against the tavern’s outer wall.

He tastes of whiskey and ale, it’s enough for No One to get drunk off of, and he drinks deeply from the other man. Hands lie flat against his arse, pulling him in closer. Thom is deceivingly warm, and those hands, now stripped of their gloves, dip beneath the waist band of his breeches and around his hips. A moan is passed between them, kissing through their laughter and clacking teeth. No One’s breath is hitched quickly, inhaled in a gasp when the warmth of Thom’s palm curls around his cock. He’s still soft, he doesn’t think he could get fast that hard when he was completely sober.

Thom isn’t deterred, cupping his cock just tight enough that the heat is engulfing. He thumbs between the folds of his foreskin, glancing the softer skin of his cock head, his fingers gently gliding across the shaft. It’s wholly opposite to his kisses, that burn with desire, open mouthed and billowing hot breath into cold air. There’s a mumble of something from one of them, and it brings them to grin and press closer, seeking only each other.

No One pushes into it, forgetting about the letter, finding comfort pressed against a wall with rushed breath. He inhales quickly through flared nostrils, grinding into his palm. Thom’s other hand slips down to grab at his bollocks, fingers stroking down the back of them, pressing up at the skin between his sex and his arse. No One gasps out a curse, fingers tightening the grip they hold on Thom’s coat. His foreskin is pulled back, wetness gathering at the tip with the repetitive strokes. He spreads his legs gracelessly, feet slipping in the snow, giving Thom a better angle to work from.

He knows he probably looks ridiculous, legs spread and grinding up against Thom. The two hands in his unknotted breeches are the only thing keeping them around his hips. No One’s hands grip at Thom’s hair, tight enough for a few strands to fall loose; the other man grunts louder, and No One pulls harder.

“Mon chéri.” He hisses, biting at Thom’s neck, tasting his skin with a fevered tongue. No One hears the other man’s moan, feeling the way his hand moves just that slight bit more desperately. He wants to be closer, to line Thom’s body with his own, but the hands in his breeches form an unapologetic barrier between them.

The tavern door swings open beside them, slamming into the wall and pulling a yelp from No One. There’s a few mutterings of drunken apologies from those staggering out, as if they had wandered into their chamber instead of finding them out in public like that. Thom slips his hands from No One’s breeches with embarrassed laughter bubbling from his chest, his face is flushed and his eyes filled with lust. He sticks the tip of his thumb in his mouth, swiping at the wetness No One had left there and gesturing for them to start walking back to their bedchamber.

“I’m too drunk.” He huffs, a hand threading back through his hair. No One stills for a moment as he reties his breeches, processing the words, before laughing disbelievingly. It was entirely obvious to anyone that Thom had drank too much tonight.

“Aye, let’s get to bed.” He kisses him, gentler this time, and shrugs an arm around his shoulders. Thom’s more than happy to oblige; staggering back with bumping hips and stumbling feet. Perhaps he hasn’t the means to get back at Cousland yet, but there were more important things at hand; like helping Thom to unlace his boots because he’s too drunk to do it himself.

Thom starts humming as they make their journey back, swaying with most of his weight dependant upon No One. It’s something of a sea shanty, though he does confess he’s never been a sailor, and they’re about as far from the sea as they could get. He manages to convince No One to sing along with him, staggering through the words they can only half remember and laughing when they replace them with dirtier ones.

The letter remains prominent in his mind, and the sound of Thom’s snoring can only be endearing for so long. He tries to start reading another book, but nothing seems to sink in. The nightmare from last night is permanent in his memory. All of those eyes, it reminds him of the Green-Eyed Boy, were they the ones who had fallen victim to Cousland? That young girl, barely any years to her, had she been there, culled by that bastard Warden. He chews his nails absentmindedly, wincing when the nail is pulled back too far.

There’s an unpleasant ache that wraps around him. Whiskey had dulled it to some extent, but he could still see the scabs on his hand from falling down those steps. The mess on his neck had surprised him. Usually he wouldn’t hide it, usually he wouldn’t care, but he couldn’t bear the thought of someone thinking Thom had done that to him. If they were different marks entirely, the scratch of lust or the scorch of desire, he’d wear them with pride. He cups his chest, staring down at the bruises there; bitemarks, he’d always had a thing for having his chest bitten and played with. He couldn’t really figure out how to word it attractively enough, it wasn’t like he had breasts to play with and make it obvious.

No One sighs and abandons the book. Thinking instead of the tale Thom had told him this morning. The story of Warden Blackwall. The other man had described things in great detail even if he hadn’t meant to; pale skin though heavy with tan in stark contrast over his body. No One had kept his suspicions to himself, the thought that Thom Rainier had sex with that ever so handsome Gordon Blackwall, it was an interesting one. Even if it wasn’t true, it still brought a hint of warmth to his gut. It also brings a tinge of jealousy to him, and he huffs slightly at the emotion; idiot, he scolds himself.

Andrastopher had set up everything for the Joining. Lying all the bed rolls around a fire a few minutes away, making sure he could access them easily to give the recruits somewhere to rest without disturbing Oscar or having him catch onto what was happening. The chalice, filled with the bloody concoction, sat on the top of the box it was usually held inside. Each vial necklace had a drop of blood inside, a memory for the recruits to keep, and those who died; Andrastopher would keep them for himself.

Oscar had kindly kept to his own tent ser up further away than the bedrolls. A small glow came from within, and the cast shadow of the scout was painted on the fabric walls. The rest had stood around with a building nervousness. The fight had gone extremely well, and they had assumed that was the most difficult bit. Though with how the Warden Commander went about the preparations they were almost all having seconds thoughts.

His mabari lingered lazily by Oscar’s tent, snuffling in their sleep every so often, and the horses were all securely tied. The chill of the spring night was upon them, and more than one of them had reached for blankets and shawls to throw over their shoulders. He takes a moment to peek into Oscar’s tent, asking him if he wanted to relieve himself or needed something to eat or drink. The scout denies him but thanks him all the same, gesturing to the small tatty book he read, knowing he’d be asleep soon.

“Are you all ready?” Andrastopher calls, rolling his shoulders and beckoning them over. They all jump to stand, lining up to listen to what he has to say. The recruits offer a series of nods, all ranging in anxiety and excitement. He was glad nobody had become infected from the battle previous, and he was glad most of them were eager. The day had been tiring, and he could see them wanting to get the Joining truly over with so they might engage in a sweet night of sleeping.

He walks for a few minutes, taking them deeper into the forest and carrying the items needed for the ritual. The fire is seen easily as they approach, and there’s a few looks of apprehension at the sight of the bedrolls. Andrastopher hears a whisper of _moonlight orgy_ and he refrains from scoffing at the idea. They gather to one side and he sets down the box and the full chalice.

“We speak only a few words prior to the Joining. These words have been spoken since the first.” He inhales deeply, remembering how grave Alistair had looked when he spoke them to him. “Join us, brothers and sisters, join us in the shadows where we stand vigilant, join us as we carry the duty that cannot be forsworn, and should you perish, know that your sacrifice will not be forgotten, and that one day, we shall join you.” There’s a tittering that slips through the recruits, glancing at each other in a slight anxiety. Some begin to think they’d prefer the moonlight orgy.

Andrastopher points at Anneline, crooking a finger at her to bring her closer. A flash of fear jolts across her features, but she hides it with her boisterousness. He picks up the silver chalice, holding it in both hands as he carefully passes it to her.

“Do I drink it all?” She asks, her brows pinching together. She can see it’s blood, and the smell is potent, it stinks of infection. Annelise glances back at the others, she didn’t want to be first. But she wasn’t so cowardly to ask another to take her place.

“Just a single swallow will do.” Andrastopher says gesturing to the chalice. Annelise nods, swallowing thickly first of her fear, and then of the blood. Her face screws up at the taste and she pushes the concoction back into the Warden Commander’s hands, wiping the back of her mouth with her own. “Annelise Short-Fingers, from this moment forth you are a Grey Warden.” He says it calmly, placing the chalice back upon it’s box.

The pain that splits into her is unlike any other. Flashes of darkspawn are brought to her eyes, blinding whites, a swollen throat, something burning through her like she had swallowed liquid fire. Agony fades as quickly as it had come upon her, and she drops to the ground with a heavy thud.

“What the fuck?” Colt hisses. All the recruits take a staggered step backwards, watches as Andrastopher crouches down to check her weakened pulse. He brushes back the loosened strands of her hair and checks to feel the little puffs of breath that slip from her nose. Relief drips into him, but he hides it easily. She was alive, and it removed the fear of a unanimous death.

“It’s a common reaction.” He says, bending down to pull Annelise from where she had fallen. She’s heavier than he had thought, but it doesn’t hinder him as he lays her down upon a bedroll. He ensures she’s covered with a blanket before he returns to the rest of them. It would be a while before she awoke, and he wouldn’t expect any of them to be ready to go straight away.

“Will she be well?” Kina asks, the only one able to voice anything. Her concern is spread throughout all of them.

“She’ll awaken with little more than a headache.” And a dozen or so questions, but they all would, just as he had. At least he had the courtesy to lie them somewhere comfortable, and not just leave them where they fell. One Warden Recruiter had tried giving them the concoction in bed, but they needed room to thrash and work through the poison. It’s the best way, letting them drop to the floor like this, it’s the safest for everyone involved.

The recruits shuffle nervously where they stand. There was a sympathetic victory to drinking first; they didn’t have to watch the rest of them go through with the initiation. Andrastopher gestures for Lawrence to step closer, and hides his mirth as the recruits all step back once more, expecting him to fall just as Annelise had. The ex-templar takes the chalice with shaking hands, steeling himself with a deep breath and taking a drink. Chalice returned, he readies himself to endure the same pain that had spilt into Annelise.

“Lawrence Auffrye, from this moment forth you are a Grey Warden.” Andrastopher says it just as calmly as the first. But he feels the tide of taint overwhelming the young man, and he feels the death before it happens. Blood is coughed from his lips, splattering the front of his arrow pierced armour, it slips from his nose, and he clutches at his throat as it chokes him. He convulses as he collapses, reaching for Andrastopher’s vomit stained boots.

The Warden Commander crouches, taking Lawrence’s hand in his own, gripping just as tightly as the man does to him. The man would be blinded by the drink, feeling alone in his agony, but Andrastopher keeps the physical connection until he feels the grip go slack. Lawrence is far heavier than Annelise, and he is lain to one side, away from the recruits and the encampment.

“Ashes we were, and ashes we become. Maker, give this young man a place at your side. Let us take comfort in the peace he has found in eternity. Your fight is over, Ser Lawrence, and your sacrifice will never be forgotten.” Andrastopher’s words are whispered. He closes Lawrence’s eyes with gentler fingers and folds his hands over his chest. The words had felt sour upon his lips, but he had learnt them years ago. Just as he had learnt the Dalish prayers for the dead, the Chasind prayers, the Avvar prayers, the Dwarven prayers, each one engrained in his memory for the times he had spoken them, and for the times he would do so again.

There’s a drop of guilt that filters through him at the lack of sympathy inside. Lawrence was related to him, distantly, but he was still family to some degree. Yet he couldn’t find it to be compassionate to his death. He didn’t know Lawrence, not truly. Not as if he were a brother or a cousin. But he was a Grey Warden, and his life had ended abruptly before he had even made a wave in the ocean. What was it that Flemeth had once said to them? _Sadly irrelevant to the larger scheme of things_. A crueller fate than the young man deserved. But such was the way of the Grey Wardens.

He turns back to the recruits all stock still with fear. Annelise had only fainted, none of them had thought this was so fatal. Andrastopher knows this is the moment where it all stands to go wrong. He looks for the fear the Ser Jory had exuded when they had watched Daveth die. A foe they couldn’t face with their blade. It would almost shock him how clearly he can remember that day, but most Wardens did. Few were it that could forget such an ordeal.

“You never told us this could kill us.” Dian whispers, her eyes frozen to the dead Warden only a few feet away. Most of them stared at him, none choosing to remember that Annelise slept peacefully to one side of them. Andrastopher gestures to Colt, it was better to get him out of the way; he looked the most afraid at the prospect of drinking such a thing. He had the most fear in him, the one with the most reasons to run away.

“This is insane.” He says, his voice cracking and singing a pitch higher, “I’m not drinking that.” Colt shakes his head rapidly, stepping away from the Warden Commander.

“This is the only choice you have.” Andrastopher says it sternly, almost fatherly, but it cannot break through Colt’s horror. The young man wasn’t ready to die, but the odds were stacking against him rapidly, and Andrastopher fears the next words that fall from his lips.

“No, I’m leaving.” He says, shaking his head. It’s the last decision that Colt would make. Andrastopher steels himself waiting for Colt to start walking away before he puts the chalice down. The young man had potential in the Wardens, he wasn’t the best fighter, and he wasn’t the best to get along with; but Andrastopher hadn’t been either. Colt Luedwin, he would not die a Grey Warden, he would die a coward.

“Stop.” Andrastopher says, plucking his war bow from his sling. Colt turns to see the action, smart enough to understand exactly what it means, but not so clever that he won’t attempt to run. He turns away from their encampment, knowing the thicker forest would give him better coverage. Stealing a horse had slipped into his mind, but they would recognise the Inquisition branding, and people would know. Colt might not have been the best thief, but he wasn’t going to die to a bloody drink.

The group watch as he runs, watching as Andrastopher’s blue feathered arrow is nocked, the muscles in his arms flexing with the strain of drawing the bow. After the shock of Annelise fainting, and the death of Lawrence, nobody can stand to move.

“Stop!” The word is called again, louder, it almost echoes through the trees that surround them. A sharp whistle follows, then the snarling barks of his mabaris, and Colt turns only for an arrow to split through his nose, piercing through to the back of his skull. He falls with the same force that the two Wardens before him had, though when he reaches for comfort, he receives nothing.

It’s only then that the silence shifts, thicker around them, suffocating almost. As if everything that had just happened was surreal, the Warden Commander had just murdered a man in front of them, and he held no remorse in his frame.

“Everleigh, check him.” Andrastopher says, the mabari bounding off as if to fetch a dead bird. He knows Colt is most likely dead, he was a man who rarely missed, but there was no harm in checking. They remain silent until a bark is heard, and the mabari comes running back, nudging her head into Andrastopher’s side until he graces her with a scratch behind the ears.

“You… You killed him.” Quincy whispers, feeling naked without her daggers. They all know why he had told them they hadn’t needed their weapons; he didn’t want an opposition. She swallowed thickly, taking a step back and peering into the distance, she could hope he had made it out. As much as he had annoyed her, he didn’t deserve to be shot down like that; like he meant nothing.

“Kina Sa’Shiral-”

“No, she’s not drinking that, nobody else is. This is madness.” Quincy steps in front of the elf, her chin jutting out in determined aggression. She’d fistfight the Warden Commander if she had to, she wasn’t dying for no reason, not like this. Andrastopher stares passed her, at the young elf who wrings her hands in fear.

“Kina, this your choice, you will drink this concoction or you will die.” Andrastopher says it softly. Not as an executioner but as a man willing her to drink, to take the safest option they all had.

“What kind of choice is that?” Xanthe hisses, she knew she shouldn’t have left Woeful Dirge behind.

“The only choice you have.” He speaks to them all, meeting their gazes intently. Silence settles upon them once more, all glancing towards one another in voiceless pleas.

“Annalise survived,” Lei says, stepping forward, “I’ll go next.” He says it with a strength in his voice, clearing his throat so it doesn’t shake. He was terrified, there wasn’t many who wouldn’t be at that point. But he knew his maths, and he knew there was only one path to take out of this that gave them something of a chance to survive.

“Lei, come on, we can take him, we don’t need to-” Quincy whispers, grabbing for his wrist and pulling him back.

“We came here to be Grey Wardens, and I don’t want ‘Lise to wake up alone knowing we were all to cowardly to take a chance on this.” He pulls his hand from her grip and holds it out to take the chalice. Andrastopher gifts it to him carefully, watching the apprehension fall away under the weight of determination. Lei swallows deeply, coughing at the foul taste, and pushing the chalice back into the Warden Commander’s grip.

“Lei Mi’Durgen, from this moment forth you are a Grey Warden.” He says it with the same tone he had done for Annelise and Lawrence, watching as the boy’s skin pale. Lei had never felt anything like it; the lightning that burned through him, claws pulling at his skin, pinching the back of his eyes. He wants to call out to a God to take away the pain, but he staggers forward, clutching at Andrastopher. That ink stained face is the last thing he sees.

Goddard had spent the last few hours scripting letter after letter in an attempt to deal with the issues of his bannorn. Some were fighting over land, some over coin, more than a few had invoked his name and claimed themselves distance relatives and asked the Inquisition to help them. He had wrongly assumed that they would be complacent and sympathetic with the war that he was fighting. Eventually he had given up, when he realised he had only written a few words over the past several minutes; which entirely consisted of exasperated insults.

He had undressed as quietly as he could, scuffling with the sling which was a pain to deal with, and how his clothes bunched around the cast of his wrist. The temptation to clamber into bed fully clothed was one that was hard to deny. Yet, he strips naked and throws on a long tunic, something that comes down to his knees, and is lightly decorated around the fringes. He hated the things that had beads and buttons sewn in, he couldn’t think of anything less comfortable. But he had more complicated issues.

Yetta doesn’t stir when he lifts up the heavy covers and slips in beneath them. The warmth is inviting, and he writhes for a moment to take it in quicker. His eyes close, and he expects the tide of fatigue to take him away, but it’s minutes before they open again, wide awake. Goddard huffs quietly, wishing he had just fallen into bed and given up for the night. He was too old to be losing sleep like this.

The ceiling is something of interest, and he rolls over the stare at the curtains to one side. The large arching stained glass windows that were hidden behind, they cast such wonderful light at the right time of day. Sometimes it hit him of the beauty they were surrounded with. He lived in, and owned, an ancient fortress in the Frostback Mountains. The views were so stunning that it was almost sinful not to drink them in at every opportunity that they were granted.

He wonders if his mother would have been proud of him; quite literally on top of Thedas. She had been much kinder than Aaric, even though her attention was solely focused on making sure Lizette wasn’t left behind by him. Still, she hadn’t stuck up for him when Aaric tried to force him into the templars. No, she hated Florent as much as her husband did. Goddard chews on the inside of his cheek, turning over again the face his own wife.

Yetta was kind, lovely, cherishing, she was a treasure that Goddard had somehow managed to capture the heart of. She was smart, cunning, she had a beauty that couldn’t fade no matter what happened. Sometimes Goddard felt clunky beside her. He had seen the wrinkles that had etched deeply across his face, curling around his eyes, branching from his neck. The scar that cut deeply into the flesh of his cheek. But she would waken with a smile, and she wouldn’t find fault in how his neck sagged or how his lips had thinned over the years. She hadn’t ever found fault with his crooked teeth riddled with gaps, his heavy jaw or his big ears. Yetta had protested his earrings though, and he had taken them out without delay. Anything for her, no matter how small.

He hoped they were better parents than their own. To shower their children in love no matter who they were or what they did. They had supported Twyla when she had told them she fancied Mirabelle, and Goddard had told her about how he had loved a man when he was younger. As they had done to Fulton, when he had fallen in love at fifteen with a woman almost twice his age, and as they had done to Wakefield when he had fallen for a cobbler’s daughter.

They wanted their children happy, and they had the coin to keep up with such things. To hire a tutor capable of teaching them how to fight, to teach them languages, art, dancing. To keep them safe and fed, to make sure, above all else, that they were content and adored. Yetta had been a brilliant mother and a brilliant wife. That had never been in question.

Goddard finds himself staring at the curve of his wife’s shoulder. She’s turned away from him, always having slept on her left side for comfort. It made curling up behind her so much easier, an arm around her waist, kisses upon the back of her neck. He remembers how easily they could find themselves within one another; some nights he would let his fingers dance the length of his thigh, slipping up her nightdress and into her underthings. She would roll onto her back with the faintest touch of a smile, tease him into a kiss, and shift her legs just a few inches further apart for a hand to grace her intimately.

Those days when they were younger, when he fought for a thriving Ferelden that hated him, branding him with the lion of Orlais he had sacrificed. They had both thought things difficult then. Not for them, they loved each other, but Goddard’s constant back and forth in war, to ride north only for a month with his family, and then to return south for so much longer.

Yetta had been so much more than he deserved. As had his children. She had taught them to be forgiving of Goddard’s war-like ways, the absence he had no control over. There were rougher years, when they became independent and didn’t want the frilly things he brought back from Ferelden each time. But that had passed. Things were so much more complicated now.

He abandons the memories of more recent times, imagining himself younger. The last night before he had to leave, Twyla had been a little terror throughout the day, and Goddard had willingly chased her all around the estate. He had scooped her up a few times, swinging her around as she squealed in delight. She had been exhausted by their last meal, and he had kissed her goodnight, and set her to bed himself. Then he had slipped into bed beside Yetta, and she had kissed him with such passion and delight.

Maker, but he had lost himself within her more times than he should have that night. She had enticed him so, wearing something of a see-through negligee, long dark hair curled and down to her waist. Yetta had made such an effort for him, and love coiled in his chest and swelled into his lungs. He’d returned after some months to find her with child and with a broad smile across her features. Goddard had kissed her just as passionately that night, lips gentle across the swell of her belly.

“Yetta.” He whispered, rolling onto his side, one hand pulling at the loosened strands of hair that had fallen from her braid. Goddard kissed at the back of her neck, kissing the back of her ear, inhaling deeply of the scent of her hair. She hums as she turns over, her eyes fatigued and opening slowly. He kisses her with tenderness, cupping the side of her face with one hand, propping himself up with his elbow.

“What time is it?” She mumbles.

“I don’t know.” He says, abandoning the Trade tongue to speak in their natural Ostwane. It was a slow tongue, drawn out words, each one a tune that bled into the next. “I love you.” Goddard preferred it to the clearness of Trade, and it had taken him a while to get into the sharper words of Orlesian, and the heavy words of Fereldan. Ostwane was gentle on the tongue, and he felt nothing but affectionate at this moment.

“Dee?” Her voice was clearer this time, surprised at the use of their native tongue. It wasn’t something he used often, the natural slur it held often made people think them stupid.

“Let me make love to you.” He kissed her in question, lacing their fingers together. She smiled and pulled him closer, more than thrilled at the interruption to her sleep. Yetta welcomed the hand that loosened the ties of her thicker nightdress, that slipped in to cup at her breast. A knowing thumb press against the swell of her nipple, and her own hands push at the ties until it lays open and bares her chest.

She feels a giggle pulled from her lungs when the cast of her husband’s arm bumps against her own. He licks his lips to stop the smile that grows there, kissing down her chest, the valley between her breasts. Yetta sits up, clutching her dress so that she might disrobe entirely when she stands. Goddard knows he’s never seen anything as beautiful as what stands before him now, more so when she pulls the tie from her braid and brushes carefully through her hair until it all falls loose around her.

“Maker.” He whispers, and she turns with a smile painted upon her lips. Yetta sits beside him, pulling at her husband’s lengthy tunic until it’s brought over his head and tossed aside. She welcomes him when he settles between her thighs, pulling him to kiss her. It’s tender, bar the scratch of stubble that Goddard had accumulated over the day, though it wasn’t as if Yetta had never liked such a thing.

She pushes herself further down the bed, a slight thrill spiking through her when she feels her husband’s sex against her own. It still delighted her even after all these years, the initial touch, how damp she grew between her thighs, when it first entered her for the night. The fingers of his right hand drag down the curve of her stomach, through the thatching of hair upon her, and cup her under his palm. Yetta rolls her hips against his grip, there’s little friction to be found, but it is not friction she seeks. Those hands on her, the thought of that, she had brought herself to euphoria many times with only that knowledge.

The kisses grow with their passion, and her hands wander to Goddard’s cock. Gently running her fingers across the length, once, twice, thrice; she grips the base tighter, squeezing for just a moment until she hears the swift inhale, and then she releases him. Yetta widens her thighs for Goddard to press in closer, his fingers spreading her lips whilst his thumb presses against her clit. He draws circles upon her, one direction and then the other, following her when her hips move.

Yetta pulls her hand away from his cock, both of them scratching down his chest with perfectly painted nails. Goddard’s hand follows, grabbing at his cock and pressing against her. She swallows thickly breaking their kiss to mouth at his jaw, a stuttered gasp escaping her lips when he presses into her. Goddard’s resounding moan is hot against her ear, and he huffs a breath across her neck as he kisses her there.

He thrusts slowly at first, trying to control his breathing with each drag across his cock. Yetta was indeed perfect, and she brings him to kiss her again, a gasp falling from her when his thumb returns to her sex. He strokes her with practiced ease, moaning into her when her legs close around his hips. Yetta urges him faster, grabbing at his waist, pinching the skin that had gathered there over the years, He still has strength in his muscles, but it’s not visible any longer, not as his stomach sags against her own. But that only gives them a closeness as his thrusts gain in all the ways she wants them to.

Her moans slip from her despite how she begs them not to. High pitched things when Goddard’s thumb catches her in exactly the way he knows that she loves. But her husband is just the same; with low warbling grunts in her ear. She clutches at the back of his head, messing the thinning strands of his hair.

“Dee.” She gasps, her toes curling as she feels the warmth of orgasm spread inside of her. Yetta tightens around him, her legs twitching and her fingers tightening. Each pulse of her sex brings a wave of pleasure as it restricts around Goddard’s cock. He muffles his lust into her neck, slowing the motions of his thumb, though maintaining pace with his hips. “Again.” She whispers, thickly in Ostwane. His thumb moves again with vigour, and she rides through the pleasure of her first, feeling it building heavily upon her second.

Goddard bites his tongue, grunting with exertion, no longer the young man he wishes to be, and struggling to keep himself aloft on an arm that’s still encased in cast. But Yetta urges him on, her gasps and moans and the little rotations of her hips. He kisses her heavily, open mouthed and wanting. Goddard rushes the movements of his thumb, her head thrown back as a second wave of pleasure ignites in her. It claws at him too, dragging him into his own ecstasy, and coming inside of her. Yetta no longer bleeds with every month, and to feel the release of her husband inside of her without fear of falling heavy with child is pure bliss.

His thighs shake as much as his arm as he flops down beside her. Both of their chests heaving with excitement, their faces ruddy with pleasure and warmth. She closes her legs tightly, her toes still curled with pleasure, and falls into embracing her husband.

“I do love you as well.”  Yetta whispers, and Goddard laughs softly, a hand gently brushing through her hair. She sits up a moment to pull the strands from beneath her, tossing them behind so they won’t pinch at her scalp, before returned to lay upon his chest.

“We’re good parents, aren’t we?” He asks, grabbing her hand within his own. It was still hidden in a glove, to stop the eerie glow from illuminating their bedchamber. Goddard kisses her fingertips, laying them flat across his chest so that she might feel the rapid beating of his heart.

“You’re a good father, a good grandfather, and we hope you’ll be a good great-grandfather soon.” She reassures him kindly, knowing that his worries stem for all of his children, even the one she had not given birth to herself. “From what Fulton has told Twyla, we’ll have another grandchild as well.” She kisses his chest softly, her fingers gracing the greyed hairs that grow there. Not particularly thick by any means, and the pale colour blends into his pallid skin.

“He’s having another?” Goddard’s surprise is evident in his voice. He didn’t think Amelie was young enough to have another, though he could hardly say anything on the matter. He had fathered Lei when he was older than her.

“He hopes.” She snorts, knowing of Amelie’s stubbornness on the matter, and there were few women who wished to be pregnant during wartime. Yetta knows all of those terrors, the fears that something might happen to he husband, that he might not come back. Even now she carries those same worries.

“Two babies.” He sighs wistfully. Goddard can almost feel Yetta’s expression, the obvious knowing that she had about how her husband felt about babies. He adored them. Every time he saw one he would coo and pull that same face; the one where he seemed as if his heart was melting. It was endearing, there was no dispute on that, but their children had complained that he could be slightly overbearing on his duties as a doting grandfather.

The thought of being a great-grandmother sent a thrill though her as well, there was no use in denying that. Though they both had an unsaid fear of Gylda going through childbirth. Twyla hadn’t struggled, but they had both worried through Wakefield’s entry to the world, and the memory had clung to them eternally.

Goddard kicks at the sheets, pulling them high around their chests. They’re both entirely naked, and neither is willing to fetch the abandoned clothing. Yetta knows they should, woe be it for anyone to assume the mighty Herald of Andraste is engaging in such worldly pleasures, but there is no desire to do so. A maid would find them curled together when she restoked the fire to something of an appropriate warmth, and she would notice the clothing scattered around the room, and she would probably tell her friends, and she would be the beginning of the specific knowing looks sent their way.

She didn’t care. For at this moment, Goddard felt more like her husband than he had since this war began. Gone were the worries of that darkspawn magister, gone were the armies and the soldiers and the guards that lingered upon his order. No, in here they were Bann Trevelyan; worrying like normal parents, excited for the expected birth of their first great-grandchild, and making love like they should.

Andrastopher had left the recruits sleeping off their Joining. He’d left a note with Oaklain to pass on to whoever woke first; instructions on what to do if he was not back, it mostly consisted of telling them to get some rest and he’d answer what he could in the morning. For now, he carefully traversed through the forest land, dressed in only blacks, sprinting when he could to get to the messenger quicker. Without the heavy plate that usually adorned his legs he had a practiced speed to him, still, every footstep jolted into his thighs with a dull throb.

He took measured breaths, watching for those strangely stacked stones. A sign of communication that the Chasind often took to, allowing them to leave less obvious messages that were hidden in nature. They’re awkward things to spot but he knows how to find them.

There’s hushed whispers in the distance, muted babble and general talk. Andrastopher listens for a moment, calming his lungs and eavesdropping on the heavily accented words. He supresses his groan at recognising the owner of the voice, of course he would be here. The hope that the messenger would come alone and without his husband was abolished, and he announced his presence by stepping heavily through the bushes.

“Mo chara.” Marcus exclaims, arms outstretched as if to embrace the Warden Commander. “It’s late.” He adds, scolding him almost, when Andrastopher doesn’t make any move to embrace him. The man had always had been sour. There’s no reason for Marcus to expect any affection from the Warden, but he’ll try every time, if only because that’s who he is.

Marcus was something of a short man, muscled from years of fighting and farm work, but with a weighty gut that protruded like a woman heavy with child. He hadn’t been as fat when Andrastopher had met him in Lothering a decade or so ago, but it suited him. Of course, there were other differences; the man no longer stripped the black from his hair, and his awful goatee had been shaved in the stead of carefully groomed sideburns that met above his lips. His name had changed as well, Marcus Hawke was no longer something he used in public, Mayor Conchobhar was what he called himself nowadays. The title had been a gift from the people he built homes for. Apparently, _Lord_ Conchobhar didn’t have the same tune to it.

Conchobhar was a fitting name, and Andastopher had once thought he had chosen it just to spite him. The Chasind variation of the name Connor; a reminder of the maleficar so many people grieved for just a few days west of Champion’s Rest, as if he hadn’t been the reason they had mourned their loved ones initially. Hawke had laughed that off, a large laugh for such a little man. The name meant _lover of dogs_ , and he had taken to adopting several stray hounds in his time in Kirkwall. He made something of a jest about Anders that was as well received as it should have been.

Beside him stands his other half, much taller with a length of hair tied to keep it from his face, though it still falls beyond his shoulders. Andrastopher knew him far better, they’d spent a year together, working to get Justice under control. Anders was the one he had originally come to meet, the taint in him only a year younger than his own. Though it would be foolish to call him by that name any longer, he called himself Jarl even though it didn’t suit him in the slightest.

“How is the land?” Andrastopher asks, pulling the scarf from his head and wiping at the sweat that had gathered upon his face from his run.

“Straight to the point, miserable bugger.” He snorts, passing him a skin of water to drink deeply from. Andrastopher takes it with unsaid thanks, inhaling the water and passing it back, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “We had a trained botanist move in, she’s been a real help. But we’re not getting anywhere fast.”

“But you’re getting somewhere?” He asks, surprisingly positive for someone so dour.

“The plants aren’t rotting as quickly anymore, but the seeds still don’t grow.” Marcus shrugs, it was a trial that seemed endless. Anything they replanted into tainted soil would be shrivelled and black within the hour; short of keeping it alive constantly with magic there was little else they had figured out to do. They knew what not to do, they had reems and reems of lists about that. Though an hour was better than nothing.

Andrastopher had been a great help in extending it to that, having done his own research in reversing the taint. Anders had once told Hawke about something called the Architect, a darkspawn who had reversed the taint in the darkspawn themselves. Of course it involved drinking blood, but it didn’t truly solve anything, and there weren’t any Grey Wardens willing to be drained to save those monsters. Then there was the whole mess with Corypheus, but that was a different chapter in their lives. Marcus had done what he could to help the Inquisition with that, but it brought back too many memories, and he had children and a family now.

“I’m sorry about the recruits, I felt two of them go.” Anders says it with sympathy when silence begins to carve away at them. It hadn’t been painful, more of a pinprick in his lung, as if it had caught between his ribs for a second. His own Joining had been easy, Andrastopher had explained everything to him when he had awoken. Mhairi had succumbed to the taint, and he had fainted after drinking the blood. Oghren, well, that dwarf could drink anything and survive it without issue.

“Three.” Andrastopher corrects him, and Anders nods solemnly. He’d been privy to another Joining when they’d spent the year together, two had run, and Andrastopher had cut them down swiftly. It was a heavy burden to bear, and the Warden Commander did so with grace. Though Anders had seen the small metal box, and he had heard it rattle with the vials of previous Wardens dead. He carried it with him everywhere, a reminder of those he had lost.

Anders still had his own necklace, concealed to hide it from the rest of the world, but he still kept it. If only to remind him of the assistance that Andrastopher had given him. People everywhere had wanted him dead, they claimed he had sparked a war when he had only been called the defining moment because he was the last to act. There were far too many times that they had stood side by side against hunters of the templar order, but Andrastopher had claimed him as a Grey Warden time and time again.

“We got a letter from Zevran a few days ago, just in case we saw you before he did.” Marcus says, they had burnt it as per instruction. Keeping something like that would give people reason to suspect if they had lied about who they were, and neither of them was willing to run from their home again. Champion’s Rest was a nice little village, and it was theirs.

“And?”

“He overheard some Inquisition scouts talking, the group stationed with the monarchy, said they were going to be tracking you to Amaranthine.” He explains it with a shrug, both of them knew that Andrastopher scarcely got on with King Alistair, they had assumed it was something to do with that. “Said something about you being a prospected danger.”

“On what grounds?” Andrastopher frowns at them. Burning letters was a true method of denying evidence, but it relied too much on mouth to ear tracking; and things could be lost in translation. He trusted them to some extent, and they had at least one brain between them both.

“Something about a caravan travelling north,” the young Lady Trevelyan, Andrastopher realises, “they were supposed to pincer you with another group. Though I guess they’ve missed you.” Marcus says it with a grin. He didn’t have any qualms with the Inquisition himself, they’d agreed to leave him alone after his assistance, but that didn’t mean he liked them hounding his friends. How ever Andrastopher might deny it, Marcus did think of them as friends, few that both had in the world today. They had slept together once or twice, that meant something at the very least.

“Do they mean to arrest me?” He asks.

“Why, what’ve you done?” Marcus snorts, leaning closer as if to have him whisper it to him.

“ _Conchobhar_.” Anders scolds, slapping him on the shoulder. He turns to Andrastopher with his answer, “I don’t think so.” He shakes his head as he says it, there was nothing about a warrant nor an order of assassination. If there had been he didn’t doubt Zevran would have found him by himself, and probably disposed of the Inquisition scouts himself. Though, none of them could say that hadn’t happened.

“And Zevran himself?” Andrastopher says, hoping that he was well. There would be no reprise for anyone who brought him harm.

“He was heading towards Amaranthine, to try and figure out what they wanted with you.” Anders explains, ignoring the way Marcus rolled his eyes at being told off.

“Then you have my thanks, if I don’t see him on the road he’ll be at home.” Andrastopher offers something of a bow, relieved that nothing had happened to Zevran for sending the letter. The excitement of meeting him again after so long is hidden beneath a stony exterior, he’d ride just that bit faster to get to Amaranthine if only to collapse into his arms. “How’re the children?” He adds, with an afterthought.

“Little Joe’s fantastic, he’s apprenticing with you, isn’t he?” Marcus nudges his husband, a toothy smile upon his face. Anders hums a yes, his own smile pulling across his face. “Ida prefers hitting people than using magic though, she reminds me of Carver.” He screws up his nose at the knowledge but offers something of a laugh to it after.

Marcus and Anders made good fathers, they’d both babbled about the children excitedly when they had first arrived. Andrastopher bore the brunt of their joy, and it brought him a sense of guilt over how he had left his own son. It had been a chance thing from what he understood. Marcus had gotten a girl pregnant just before the blight, and she had left with her family before finding out she was expecting. She’d eventually gone to Carver for help when both twins started to gain their magical abilities. It had been a blessing for Marcus to gain a family, after everything in Kirkwall. Now they all lived in Champions rest, and his children had three fathers and a mother.

“We’ve built something of a school now since there’s a fair few kids running around. You should visit when you have the time.” Marcus’ grin grows, ever the proud Mayor of a small village. That suited him as well. He had met him when he stood as Champion and Viscount of Kirkwall, there was a fatigue that stuck to him, exhausted under the weight of those titles. Marcus Hawke wasn’t made for royalty, he was made to be revered and heralded, but not to bear a crown that didn’t fit his head.

“I’ll keep that in mind.” He says, keeping them hopeful for a visit but knowing he’ll never follow through. Champion’s Rest was full of mages and their family, there is little chance they welcome the Hero of Ferelden with open arms. Fereldan’s didn’t forgive and forget so easily, and Kinloch Hold would be written in history for ages to come. Andrastopher offers a slight bow as he wraps the scarf over his head once more, and they wave at him as he begins to jog away, building back up to a striding sprint. He would be back with the Wardens soon; he would have to answer their questions, and there were pyres to be built.

Three pyres, it was only respectful to them. It could have only been two if Colt hadn’t fled, though it could have been more if his death hadn’t frightened the others into staying. He endures the burn in his legs, panting with measured breaths yet again, it’s getting dark, and he’s been hit in the face by low hanging branches more times that he’d admit.

A figure is illuminated by the fire as he approaches, broad shouldered, standing there waiting for the return of the Warden Commander. The others have already returned to their tents for their rest, the bedrolls having been moved inside for the remainder of the night. Andrastopher would rather have the time to clean himself up before facing their endless questions, but he knows the figure won’t wait, and it would be cruel to ask them to.

He slows his pace as he approaches, unravelling the scarf, wiping at his forehead and scalp again. His marbaris are excited to see him, their stumped tails wagging and their ears perking up. The figure looks less than pleased, concerned perhaps, or disappointed. Andrastopher had dealt with worse, and he gestures for them to follow as he enters their camp. He had answers, hopefully enough to satiate all the concerns that were offered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dalish:  
> "Tel'ghilas, Da'fen." : Don't go, Little Wolf.  
> "Is'garas vhenas Covetous." : He comes home, Covetous.  
> "Var vhenas, mala vhenas." : Our home, your home.
> 
> Orlesian:  
> "Au secours." - Help.
> 
> Chasind:  
> "Mo chara." - My friend.


	46. Shackles Before

Thom’s headache was far worse than any he had in years. The only movement he could manage was to roll over onto his back and let a throaty groan escape from him at the cold sheets he now lay upon. A laughter echoes it, and he can’t even open his eyes to look at who it was. It was No One, he knew that just from the sound, but it didn’t stop his mind from guessing who it was again after he had already figured it out. No One, who he was rather fond of, but could be just a touch quieter with the circumstances. He’s convinced it’s the other man’s fault that he’s cursed with such a blinding pain behind his eyes, even if his memory fails him.

A hand curls in his own, and he makes the effort to squeeze it as a welcoming, even if it takes him a moment to figure out his right hand from his left. Another hand tugs hair from his forehead, pushing the strands back with a delicate touch. There’s a murmur that makes its way into his ears, soft little words, soothing things, he hums in return; his tongue hasn’t woken up enough to focus on speaking, and his throat aches with that familiar morning dryness.

“Drink this, mon chéri.” No One whispers. He cups the back of Thom’s head, bringing it up until he could swallow safely, and holds the cup to his lips. It’s the same hangover cure he’s made for him before, and though it’s not the tastiest thing to drink, it’ll make him feel better. Thom takes it slowly and manages to pull himself to sit up half way through. It’s a brilliant thing to have after a night of heavy drinking, and it’s an easy thing to make. The cure happens to be one of the only things No One can brew properly.

Thom isn’t one for talking when such a throb in his head, but No One’s mind manages both sides of a conversation without him; tumbling over the letter he had received and burnt yesterday. Another three lives he was to be held accountable for, how ever they had died, it was because of him. He had tried to convince himself it would have been for the better; they were Children after all. Stolen children mutilated and moulded into silent killers. But they were still people, with friends and family. No One might as well have tied a noose about their necks and hanged them himself.

He thinks about writing a letter to the Piss Merchant, asking about those who had died. Though the greedy bastard would want something in return, and No One didn’t feel like killing anyone to find out why someone else had died. It meant something that he hadn’t tried to get the information again. But No One couldn’t decipher whether it was because he didn’t value No One, or he knew Cousland was dangerous enough not to meddle in his business any longer. Perhaps No One was out of his depth, and he should just do as he says until he and Thom could get out of sight.

Would the man even agree to such a thing; to run away with him constantly living in fear of the man who knew his secret? He trusted Cousland, he had said as much himself. Though No One hadn’t made an attempt to discredit him, and he trusted Thom’s judgement. Cousland had kept his word not to say anything about his chevalier past, but he had so recently plied him with poison.

The jerk of Thom pressing himself under his arm pulls him out of his thoughts, and he feels the man sigh as soon as he’s more comfortable. No One has to sit up higher, straightening his back so Thom can fit under easier, and he kisses the top of his hair. Would Thom even want to run away with him? It wasn’t as if he had much to offer. He chews on his lip, biting at the scar that splits them.

“You think Cabot would let me peel vegetables for him?” He whispers, “For coin.” An honest job, maybe not lucrative, but he’d be able to buy something that wasn’t with bloodied coin. The beginnings of laughter began to brew inside of him, he wouldn’t make a good farmer, and he couldn’t cook to save his life. But he’d settle for making a few coppers in the back of a kitchen with a peeling knife. Perhaps a woodcutter, it couldn’t be that hard to hit something with an axe repeatedly until it fell. Neither jobs required that much finesse, and nobody could suspect him of a criminal past in those careers. It’d keep him out of Caldwell’s way as well.

No One glances down at Thom, who’d fallen back asleep on his chest, and the empty cup in his lap that left droplets upon his breeches. A sorry reminder of what lay beneath them, the scars that made him into the man he was today. Nobody would want a wolf in their larder. He brushes his fingers through Thom’s hair, nobody would want a wolf in their bed.

This was different, he thinks, Thom doesn’t want a werewolf in his bed. Or, so No One assumes, the man could have strange inclinations. But he wanted No One in his bed, and that’s who he was. He scratches at his neck, remembering that he wasn’t even No One. Not truly. That was something he’d given himself, but it wasn’t who he was. Even if the revelation had come at a strange time, and he had blacked out for the following few days. Lord Baroulx, that’s who he was. The eldest son of Duke Maxime and Duchess Osanne, the heir to the Baroulx fortunes which had now bypassed him and been transferred to his daughter.

He didn’t have any issue with it all, and he’d give Adeline the world if he could. But he’d thoroughly ruined that. Though what he had gained in the past year, he’d done that without his title or bandying about his coin like the egotistical noble he used to be. It made him feel honest, despite how hypocritical the thought sounds with all the lies he’s told, he feels like a good man. Something which catches him off guard as the thought pulls at his mind.

No One hadn’t had the gall to assume he’d ever feel anything but loathing about himself; Thom had changed that. He huffs softly, exhaling quietly so as not to disturb the other man, wondering when exactly things had changed so dramatically. The Piss Merchant hadn’t sent him a contract in a while, and he hadn’t needed a lyrium refill since. That thought spears through his chest, his tongue dragging across the iron caps in his mouth, when was the last time he’d filled them with lyrium? He could still taste it; his teeth and the iron were thoroughly stained with the liquid. It must have been weeks since he had taken it.

Perhaps that was causing the rupture in his nightmares; lyrium was inherently tied to the Fade, the thought that his terrors might be due to sobering up was a troublesome one. The thought that it wasn’t the true theory left him open ended to dozens of other ideas that he couldn’t quite decipher. Something had happened, something he couldn’t figure out with the knowledge he had right now.

The last few days had been awful, though it can’t weigh on his mind; not when he’s got Thom snoring on his chest, sleeping through the hangover he’d gotten playing dice last night. No One knows he should feel guilty for what had happened, lying to Caldwell, lying to everyone, those three Children, and countless other missteps. But it didn’t matter in this room, not when it was just the two of them. Thom has the odd ability of making everything else seem so far away, they’d admit it was there, lingering out of sight, but it wasn’t something immediate.

“Thank you, Thom.” He murmurs, kissing the top of his head once more. It earns him a grunt and a shuffle from the other man; ill-suited to the disruption in his sleep. No One resigns himself to being stuck there for the foreseeable and struggles to grab a book from the chest beside the bed. With a few grunts of disapproval from the other man, he manages to topple the books onto the bed, and has a choice of some rather awful ones to pick from. Why he had even taken these from the library is beyond himself. Still, he’s had worse fun in shackles before.

He chooses one about hounds, the different breeds of them, the experimental breeds which were far too dangerous to control, rankings of popularity and how Fereldan’s tended to choose the larger ones made with a bulk of strength behind them. Though those breeds had nothing on the Avvar hounds. No One can remember the popularity of those hairless dogs in Orlais, which faded with fashion in favour of tall things with hair that could be shaped into whatever the owner wished. Everyone was particular about their dogs, and even Orlais had painted war hounds. It throws him every time he reads the word _dog_ within the book, thinking for a moment that it speaks of him.

The book, and another about smelters, distracts him for long enough that he’s still there when Thom awakens again, with what looks to be less of a hangover, though still persistent with fatigue. Men their age shouldn’t be drinking until they couldn’t walk, No One thinks, the barest hints of a smile forming across his lips. It had taken time to adjust to those ten years he had lost, those ten years he had aged unseen.

“Andraste’s tits.” He grumbles, thankful the curtains were still drawn closed. A sliver of light came through, illuminating whatever dust they kicked up with their movements. A squinting smile is sent to No One, and he tips the cup at him in thanks; at least he remembers drinking from it. “Is it still morning?”

“Tenth hour, by my guess.” No One says, getting up from the bed to stretch out his back. His spine protests in a series of cracking shouts, but he feels better for being able to move.  “How’s your head?”

“I’ve had worse.” Thom shrugs, kicking out the chamber pot to relieve himself. He no longer feels as if he’d been booted in the head by a raging drakolisk last night, but his memory was blurred and there was a lingering throb that would fade in time. There’s a vague recollection of playing dice and sucking No One’s face outside of the tavern. But nothing seems to stick in his mind. The chamber pot is left by the door for someone to collect; the acrid smell is adjusted to, and Thom strips off his tunic to give himself a soldier’s wash in the small bathing chamber. He had bathed after sparring with Bull, and he’d been bathing far too often lately; it was starting to dry out the skin on his hands, leaving them cracked and raw underneath his fur lined gloves. He’d have to get some oil for them or the mountain’s chilled spring air would have his skin splitting open with every movement.

No One steps in behind him, hands tracing the curve of his waist and folding pleasantly over his gut. His fingers play with the hairs that line him, pushing them one way and then the other, feeling them tickling his hands gracefully. Thom can feel No One’s sleeping sigh; the deep inhale and then the heavy rushed exhale. It’s disrupted by a breathless chuckle, and a kiss on the swell of his shoulder.

“Next time we can play for clothes.” No One whispers, teeth grazing the other man’s muscles. It’d leave them far clearer headed, and it would lead to thrilling things that weren’t handicapped by their own weights in whiskey.

“You wear three things.” He laughs, nudging backwards with an elbow as he washes the skin of his neck. A looking glass is held aloft to see the hair that left a trail from chin to chest, he wipes it down with a soapy washcloth and follows it with his fingertips; he needed to clean himself up slightly. No One’s own stubble scratched at his shoulders as the man spoke.

“You’d be naked before me.” He challenges, a grin spread wide, “we could play for stories instead?” He offers. The winner’s boon would slow the game down considerably, but he’d listen to Thom over playing dice any day. It hadn’t been a jest to claim he had a hearth fire voice with a laugh like a summer storm.

“What’d you want to know?” Thom says, pausing to turn and face him. No One was a few inches taller than him, not so much that his neck strained to look at him, but enough that No One bore the crease of weight under his chin to look down. They had been the same height when they had met; the blonde had walked with bowed legs and a hunched back, limping every so often as if he was ailed with old injury. Now, that pretence had fallen away, as Thom got more and more thoroughly acquainted with those long and scarred legs.

“Anything.” He whispers.

“Maker’s balls, you _are_ a romantic.” Thom laughs and shoves the man away playfully, shuffling passed him to grab his shaving kit. He hadn’t shaved his neck smooth in years, preferring to trim any of the unrulier strands with the pair of scissors that he used for the hair that grew from his scalp. But that was something Blackwall did, and it only left Thom with spots born from hair growing stubbornly under the surface.

“Fuck off,” He snorts, leaning on the bathing chamber doorframe, “perhaps I’m writing a book; _Rainier’s Redemption_.” He gestures grandly with his hands, as if expecting something of a limp applause.

“You’d get no profit.”

“I can ask Tethras for tips, he has a Firesday card game tonight, doesn’t he?” No One says, an eyebrow raised as Thom pulls the shaving kit from his vanity, beginning to lather the soap between his fingers. “I could use the practice, and you could stand to gain the dignity you lost last night– Are you shaving?”

“Well, nobody could claim you aren’t observant.” He grins, “Just the neck.” He adds at No One’s apprehensive stare. It’s a flood of relief that spreads over him, and he walks over to heft himself up onto the top of the vanity. Fingers take the flattened prongs of Thom’s facial hair, rubbing them between finger and thumb in a moment of absent thought.

“I like the beard. I don’t think I’ve told you before, but I do, I like it.” He hums. No One dips his finger into the lather in the other man’s palms, pressing it against the end of Thom’s nose, a popping noise falling from his lips to accompany it.

“Idiot.” Thom huffs, laughter slipping into his lungs, but he doesn’t move to wipe the soapy blob from his face, even if he can see how ridiculous he looks in the mirror.

“I’ll ask Tethras about joining him tonight.” No One says, wiping the excess soap on the curve of Thom’s neck. He inclines his head only slightly, both moving into the touch and requesting the touch of something else entirely. A kiss, a smattering of passion, and the scratch of familiar moustaches meeting. Following loyally is the murmur of hushed voices, each whispering reasons to go and reasons to stay.

No One manages to exit the room only a few minutes and a few kisses later. Intent on finding Tethras, who, as like most days, sits in the grand hall pondering beside the small fireplace in one corner. There are sheets and sheets of paper scattered on the table, each on topped with a number and a series of neat scripture in three different colours of ink. The side of Tethras’ mouth is tinged with red; he must have put his implement in the wet end first.

There’s a whistle that follows from reddening lips, short fingers pointing to his own neck. It brings a similar redness to his chest, flushing up to his ears; No One’s neck was still scratched with splotches and pinpricks from his nightmare. He waves it off, but he can see the theories spinning webs behind the dwarf’s eyes. It’d be a good idea to go back and grab the woollen scarf he had worn before, but people had already seen it, so there was little point in limiting the damage it had done.

The Firesday card game is on, and Tethras is more than happy to extend the invitation. Though, only on the condition that No One stops calling him Tethras and starts calling him Varric. He doesn’t have much of an issue with it, and there’s an unsteady handshake which raises the dwarf’s eyebrows once more. His palm is scabbed and mottled with old wounds from falling down those stairs, and he can see those webs thickening in those bright eyes.

No One escapes before Tethras, _Varric_ , he corrects himself, starts turning more stories. Though promises to pass back this way, to take a drink and tell a tale. There was another dwarf he was intent on seeing today, for a less pleasurable pass time, though it would be just as rewarding. He remembers the people who had thrown coins at him in Skyhold, giving to something of a charitable cause. But that wasn’t what he wanted, and begging was a patchy enough sort of income without him necking whiskey and bedding the Inquisitor’s redeemed companion. They’d soon start hurtling complaints and insults instead.

The tavern isn’t as busy between meal times, though Cabot seems just as blasé as ever. No One calls out the man’s name as he crosses the room, a smile spread wide under closed lips and arms thrown wide. First impressions were thoroughly ruined, but he could work well on a chance. Cabot’s frown doesn’t bode well.

Goddard had over slept and had only awoken when a clearly embarrassed Josephine had politely shaken him. She could have sent someone else in to awaken them, though she probably didn’t wish to shame the Inquisition by having their leader seen naked in bed. He wasn’t the young carved man he used to be, lots of things had started to droop with age. The Inquisitor had things to do today, just as he had things to do every day, and the world wouldn’t wait for him. Yetta had pulled him back into bed when Josephine had left, kissing him with a lazy passion. He hadn’t exactly fought her off.

Last night had brought him a youthful giddiness. A flutter in his chest that made him feel like a first-time lover once more, a shame that age won out over their desire, and he didn’t particularly keep powders and tinctures to combat such things at close hand. Though, as he kindly mentioned to his wife, he didn’t need those things to use his hands, nor his tongue.

There was a feeling of an Orlesian waltz to his step as he made his way about Skyhold. He was in a far better mood than he had been as of late, his vigour had been born anew. Goddard’s daily shave had been abandoned, and he had applied a more generous amount of perfumes to himself to hide the fact he’d been buried between Yetta’s legs for far too long this morning.

It’s an odd thing, to be talking through Corypheus’ possible movements and how well Samson is doing at commanding an army, and instead remembering the taste of Yetta on his lips and how it pollutes his mind so sweetly. He doesn’t quite believe he has ever been so interested in sex in his entire life. Perhaps it was just Yetta. She was encompassing in all of the most exquisite ways.

“Herald?” Cullen says, pausing in his demonstration, a hand hovering just above an Inquisition marker. Goddard wasn’t listening, and the two soldiers who flanked the Commander had something of knowing smiles on their faces. Cullen seemed entirely clueless to the matter, an eyebrow raised in a flicker of naïve confusion. He hums his acknowledgement, scratching at the apex of his jaw, the stubble was becoming something of an itch. Cullen continues despite the disruption, and Goddard can’t help offering something of a smile to the soldier beside him. The fires in his room this morning had been burning brilliantly, so someone must have seen he and his wife in bed together.

The meeting was shorter than usual, it must have been obvious that Goddard’s mind was elsewhere, and whatever Cullen had been saying wasn’t exactly being heard. He should feel bad for his actions; Goddard prided himself on how brilliant he was in war and as a leader, yet he was distracted. Notably so. It wasn’t so probable that he’d ever get a day off from the war, not with the position he was in, but that constant strain didn’t do him any favours. More so since his arm was bound. That only meant he was leading from the safety of his desk, and not fighting beside the men who fought for him.

Lady Josephine had a well written itinerary for Goddard that he read daily, usually whilst inhaling his first meal, it told him that every second of his time had been allocated to someone or other. Second meal had him rushing off to meet Madame Vivienne upon her balcony. They had spoken at length about the future of the circles, how they should be moulded to better suit the mages and not the templars. Magic was dangerous, that was an inherent fact, but uncontrolled and without proper teaching it was abominable.

Vivienne wanted to recreate the circles as established schools, stricter but only in their lessons. No longer would the templars be jailers, they would be assistants, aides, and as a last resort they would be defenders against those who chose the wrong paths. Goddard had given her information about the Right of Tranquillity, he wanted it removed entirely, and those already afflicted with the brand to be cured. It would take several years, tests and trials to make sure it was entirely safe, and finding Tranquil to undergo the testing, after the horrors some had faced. Vivienne had said that this may not be done entirely kindly, the tranquil suffered more than the unbranded mages, if only because they wouldn’t fight back. Gaining back what they had lost, it might be too much to endure.

It was something that had broken Goddard’s heart, to know that, not only had the templars been stripping the mages of what gave them magical ability, but that they had arguably removed everything that made them their own person, turning them into slaves without the ability to defend themselves. A life without emotion, it was cruel, and he had been furious with Cassandra when they had found out what the Seekers of Truth had hidden from the world. But he had faith in Vivienne, a woman who had built herself inside of those boundaries and had stood victorious without the aid of others. His own trials seemed so insignificant compared to such things. His shame seemed so great knowing his family had strategically married to limit the possibility of a magical child. Though the knowledge of completely ignoring that and letting his children marry whomever they wished dampened it. His own son, Lei, was a mage, though the boy’s mother was one too.

Lady Vivienne was gracefully sat upon her chaise longue, a neat pile of books to one side documenting tactical manoeuvres of Knight Enchanters. She and Commander Helaine had been working well together, instructing some of the mages on how to fight with the specific style. It made Goddard’s own standard sword feel mundane at the sight of their Fade bound blades.

“You look tired, my dear.” She says, gesturing for him to sit down on the seat opposite. It’s a comfortable piece of furniture despite how it looks, even if he has to fumble with the length of his cape before he can grace it with his presence. Vivienne knows exactly why he looks tired, she doesn’t say it, nor does she show it, but she knows and he knows that she does.

“I was writing letters until late in the eve.” He offers, entirely truthful, gesturing to the slight ink stain that is present amongst his fingers. “I believe Lady Josephine will tell me they’re all atrocious and will have to be rewritten.” Goddard says, his voice tinged with mirth. He wasn’t looking forward to it, but it was his bannorn and he couldn’t give it to Twyla with her attentions focused on Gylda. Fulton was still refusing to send him letters, and Lizette had already proven that her judgements were the wrong side of too harsh.

“And they will be.” The words almost fall as a command, though it’s said with a smile, albeit a disarming one.

“As always.” He raises both his eyebrows, hinting at his exasperation but knowing that he wouldn’t betray those who had put trust in him. If he couldn’t lead as Bann Trevelyan and Inquisitor then he should abandon one of those titles; though that could only make him look weak in the eyes of Thedas. “You look as wonderful as ever, though I wanted to ask you if you’ve any doubts about becoming Divine.”

Goddard’s directness was one of the things that Vivienne both admired and hated about him. The man was blunt, having spent the majority of his life surrounded by Ferledan soldiers he didn’t quite have the grace that was required to play that grand game. Despite how well he had done at the Winter Palace, he had some missteps that had been picked up on easily. Still, the trust he had in her that meant he didn’t need to bribe her with common niceties and small talk was a blessing. They didn’t need to compliment and comment on each other to bring them into a serious conversation.

“It’s not set in stone yet, my dear, but of course I’m apprehensive. A fool wouldn’t be, I shall take it all in stride.” Vivienne leans forward to pour them both a cup of tea, both waiting until she had finished before continuing to speak. “This will be for the good of Thedas, and it would settle many worries.” She passes Goddard a cup before taking her own, and he doesn’t hide how thankful he is not to have to fumble with cup and saucer with his arm in cast.

The sounds of the grand hall below them drift up, a dozen conversations about the state of things. No matter how small it still managed to occupy someone’s tongue. This balcony was probably one of the best places to have as a personal area in Skyhold; it gave a view of the courtyards and the throne, it was here where you could hear all of the gossip and whispers passed between nobles and workmen alike. Vivienne had chosen it with that in mind, and Goddard could not fault her for it.

“We’ve been without a Divine for two years, but it’s in those two years that I’ve known you, and I feel I shall miss that far more than I enjoy having the chantry back as it should be.” Goddard offers a pinching frown and a sympathetic smile. Madame Vivienne had been a kind friend to him, and that in itself had been a boon. The thought of having her leave the Inquisition, when allies were needed more than ever, it left him with a hole absent of joy.

“You flatter me, but we mustn’t forget that there is still much to do.” She sets her empty cup down, Goddard own still burns his fingers. It was a sweetened blend, even without sugar stirred in, and it made the drink more bearable than he was accustomed too.

“I’m going to put your name forward soon enough. Lady Cassandra and Lady Leliana aren’t pleased with the idea, but they have other interests at heart.” He offers a knowing wince. Both were candidates chosen by the chantry, and Goddard had decided to act against those wishes. Cassandra needed to aid the Seekers, and Leliana had her own troubles; something in her was cruel, and the chantry did not need to be ruled by an iron fist no matter what ideals the Divine had. “Emperor Gaspard will support you as well, though that had nothing to do with me.” Goddard adds, with something of a questioning laugh.

“Myself and Gaspard have met many times over the years, brash and uncouth as he may be, he has proved to be a faithful ally. To the Inquisition and to the de Ghislain family.” Vivienne doesn’t allow sorrow to break through on her features, but the death of Bastien had hit her harder than many knew. “He is to be married in the summer, though he hasn’t announced who his bride will be. He has always had a penchant for keeping people guessing and keeping his options open.”

“He has it down to two women, from what I have heard.”

“The young Lady Adeline and the younger Lady Rosamonde.” Vivienne says, remembering the letters she had received and the rumours she had heard. “Gamblers have taken to it eagerly, some even claim he’s marrying his mistress.” She laughs at that, what a fool notion that would be, Gaspard wasn’t that much of an idiot.

Lady Adeline was a woman nearing her thirties and had denied many a man her hand in that time. People had assumed it was because she wasn’t of the marrying kind, and perhaps her interests lay solely in women. She had three older brothers, one dead and two now married with their own children, creating heirs wasn’t something she needed to do. It was both surprising and unsurprising that she had offered herself to Gaspard, more so as she now remained as one of two prospected wives.

Lady Rosamonde, on the other hand, was freshly twenty and set to inherit a large mass of land. She had pale hair, pale eyes, and paler skin, she was everything that encompassed what a Valmont was. She didn’t have the heavy jaw and crooked nose that both Gaspard and Florianne had inherited from their de Chalons father. But that was where her ties to royalty faded. She had a feel for the immature, and she was outspoken though not in the way that the grand game required. But that could be overlooked if Gaspard wanted to capture Celene’s allies by marrying a woman who looked very much like her.

It had been said that Gaspard’s mistress, the bastard born Lord Jean-Esmeral Cireron, was the ideal person to win over in order to take the Emperor’s hand. Vivienne had met him many times; it was a traditional custom for the mistresses to know each other, and the man was a sweet-tongued bard who proved more than popular at events. He was short enough that all his boots required heels, and he had no issue in clacking them heavily across marble to command attention. Even if he was constantly mocked for being a vintner and a farmer of sorts. She believed Lady Rosamonde was far too selfish to share Gaspard if they married, and Gaspard would not live to have himself restricted in any way.

“What do you think?” Goddard asks, already knowing that Adeline had chosen the flowers and Gaspard had ordered them on her behalf; a mixture of red, golds, and greens to symbolise the joining of their houses. Apparently, there would be statues of ruby-eyed phoenixes lining the hall, rearing back in their sand-worn glory. There was an idling thought in his mind that one member of his family would be marrying the child of Florent’s niece.

“I think Lady Rosamonde doesn’t have the manner to become Empress, and whilst Lady Adeline is set to inherit a duchy, it is a small one bought with the servitude of their sons.” Vivienne offers a sly smile, adding in a quieter voice, “Lady Rosamonde doesn’t stand a chance.”

“Oh?”

“Duke Baroulx has been a close friend of Emperor Gaspard since their days in the Academie des Chevaliers, more so after his brother’s injury.” She explains it as it had once been described to her, “I believe the late Lord Florent was injured riding in place of the de Chalons’ champion.” There were harsher rumours that surrounded the story; one being that Florent had only managed to deflect the lance from piercing through his chest at the last moment, the other rider meaning to kill him and not unhorse him.

Whatever grievances were held against the de Chalons champion had been pushed aside when they had removed the rider’s helmet, expecting someone else’s face in its place, only to see a man who was completely untrained as a lancer with no reason to be there. Florent had been barely conscious with a thigh almost split in two. Healers had been on hand for it was a tourney with the imperial family invited, and they had managed to fix him to some degree, though had told him there was little chance he’d walk again.

“So, he and Florent, they knew each other?” Goddard asks, the man had never mentioned who he had ridden for, just that it wasn’t his turn to do so. But to take the saddle of a de Chalons, and to stay in touch with them often enough to build a friendship.

“I believe so, my dear.” She says.

“Thank you, Lady Vivienne, forgive my urgent exit, I have something I need to…” He trails off, offering something of a wave as he jogs from the balcony. He needed to speak to Josephine, immediately. If Florent knew the de Chalons family, then they would surely have grievances over his murder. Especially if he had saved their champion from what could have been a grisly death. It explains why the chevaliers had never tried to get him back into the order, they must have known he was tutoring, damned be whatever lies he had spun them about his leg pain being too difficult to endure upon a battlefield.

Emperor Gaspard was fierce in his loyalty to the chevaliers, he would have held Florent in high esteem for enduring an attack on his family’s behalf. To know that the Emperor might have objections with Florent’s hidden murder was both horrifying and brilliant. On one hand it destroyed the idea of paying off Lady Adeline quietly, but it now meant that the Trevelyans truly did owe something of a compensation to the imperial crown for his death.

Florent had never mentioned such a thing to him; Goddard doesn’t doubt that it was possibly covered up under coin. But it seems like something they would have spoken about. Riding for the imperial family, without consent, but still, it didn’t diminish the action. There was so much he hadn’t the chance to learn about Florent, and he bit his tongue in anger. His father was a bastard, more with every day that passes. At least they might be able to put Florent to rest, he can only pray that his remains are found, and sufficient enough for a pyre.

He catches sight of the man who reminded him of Florent, grinning in conversation with Varric, on the floor below. For a moment he wants to eavesdrop, but he knew it would serve nothing. Instead he walks on, banishing the thoughts he had once had. Goddard had believed that Florent might have started his own family, found a new love after him, born a child that now stands in Skyhold mere yards away. But Florent had died at the Trevelyan estates, Florent never got the chance to do any of those things.

Cabot had offered him a job. _Cabot had offered him a job_. He’d been sour about it, but he wouldn’t turn down an extra pair of hands in the tavern kitchen. Even if all he did was peel things and toss the peelings into a sizzling pan for someone else to fry them to fill the pasties. The pay wasn’t great, but No One knew anyone could do the job, so he took it. He wasn’t so bothered about the coin, he’d probably never make what he’d make with one contract from the family; but at least these coppers were clean.

He’d start tomorrow morning, third hour, and he’d be done by second meal, and he’d have four coppers in his pocket. The thought had been going through his head for the past hour, and Thom had been forced to bear the brunt of his glee. It wasn’t anything to match what he earned, but it was a step forward, a step that filled Thom’s eyes with something akin to pride. There was something of a kiss that passed between them, grabbing hands, grinning lips, and joy spilling from No One’s lungs. Damned be whatever would hold him to his past, he didn’t care, not right now.

They’d both been late to start Varric’s Firesday card game, and Bull had offered a guffaw as they both entered; he knew what they had just been doing. It hadn’t been anything too heavy; rushed open-mouthed kisses with the promise of more. But No One had pressed their clothed cocks against one another with a vigour of lust, biting at Thom’s lips, his freshly shaved neck, grunting when thick palms landed against his arse to pull him closer. Someone had whispered about the card game, and reluctantly they separated, laughing with that playful eagerness, waiting until they were decent enough to be seen in public.

No One was bad enough at cards that he just sat beside Thom and chewed through some grapes; his iron teeth sat to one side so he might peel the skin from the fruit and eat it separately. He was happy enough just to engage in normal conversation for once, to feel normal, and as if he belonged. Nobody asks about his neck, though it’s mostly hidden under one of the few high-collared tunics that Thom owned; and from Bull’s reaction, he assumed they’d think it was from desperate lips and not terrified nails.

“Looks like the dealer wins again, Gentlemen.” Varric grins, collecting both coin and the cards for the next round. There’s a collective groan and the hiss of cheating from someone No One hadn’t seen before. All dwarves cheated at cards, maybe not every time, but they still did it often enough. “I heard you two put on quite the show last night.” He gestures to Thom at the other end of the table as he’s shuffling the cards, expertly enough for people to know that Varric knows how to rig a deck whilst looking completely innocent.

“What?” Thom asks, a frown forming upon his brow.

“Outside the tavern.” He says, gesturing to the door. “ _Oh, mon chéri_.” Varric sang in a thick Orlesian accent, almost moaning, with a hand to his chest mockingly. No One almost chokes on the grape he’s flaying.

“Maker balls,” he grumbles aloud, leaning to whisper aside to No One, “what did we do?” The blonde can only shake his head and hide his bare-toothed grin behind the back of his palm.

“Nothing, Teth- Varric is digging for a story.” No One offers, flinging an uninjured grape at the dwarf, it lands in his ale, followed by the joyous clap of victory. He offers a wink to Thom, though the man looks more confused at that. The knowledge that Thom can’t remember trying to wank him off as soon as they left the tavern was somewhat disheartening, but it was a memory that No One would be thrilled to relive.

“Hah! How’re you so bad at cards when you can read me so well?” Varric laughs, abandoning his search for more information and tossing the grape from his drink. He begins to deal the next round of Wicked Grace, and everyone start to pile their coins together ready to toss them into the pile.

“He’s _Orlesian_.” Dorian snorts into his ale, the pretence of only drinking fine wines having been lost with his sobriety. For a moment Thom feels a shiver of panic rise in him, it was one thing that the Inquisition knew, but some people weren’t privy to such information. The last time something had been broached about No One in a card game he’d started to shut himself off.

“I used to be a pickpocket, never the best at guessing what I was going to grab, but one of the best at doing so.” He laughs. There’s no flinch to his frame, no tightening of his shoulders, no false bravado, and those walls of his remain as they are. “I could read people better than their pockets.” No One shrugs, taking his own ale in hand. He drinks from it normally, nothing to say he was nervous, even if Thom wasn’t hiding his very well. If the man found fault with Dorian exposing him, albeit accidentally and not with any malice for he knew no better of No One’s secretive state, then he didn’t make any move on it.

“Sounds like there’s a story on your chest.” Varric pries, checking his own cards that lay flat against the table. The others do the same, and there are only a few twitches of emotion, the clink of coin, and a huffed decline from Thom; his cards were awful, even No One could see that.

“There’s an alleyway of shops for people of a certain inclination, most nobles would send servants down there, whole place was full of elves. Sometimes a man would go there with a heavy coin purse and ask a beggar to buy something from there.” He paints the picture easily, plucking images from a memory, leaning on the table to bring the others into his words. “Petrified dog muzzles, enchanted animal bits, and a copper or two for a beggar’s dignity.” He whispers, and revels in the way some recoil with scrunched up faces. Orlais was a place that barely restricted sex, but there should have been limits in place.

“And you?”

“I sat and watched.” No One laughed, pushing himself back from the table and tossing an unpeeled grape into his mouth. “I wasn’t sticking my fingers in a man’s bag to find bejewelled trotters.” He waggles his fingers as he chewed loudly, grinning with the thrill of being entirely at ease. Thom offers him a wincing look; the man had spent enough time in Orlais to know about those sorts of inclinations. No One shoves him gently, laughing at Thom’s disbelieving disgust.

The tale wasn’t exactly a lie, though he hadn’t been truthful about who he was in it. He’d been an armoured chevalier, escorting a nobleman to the grimier parts of the city. No One had seen what the man had brought, he had shown it to him eagerly, and No One had denied wanting any involvement. The nobleman had read him entirely wrong, and neither of them had spoken about it again. Still he had seen the streets thick with thieves and pickpockets, and he had been there to stop the nobleman’s precious package from being stolen and ransomed for coin. These things were custom made and crafted to explicit description. Still, those were memories from an old life, and he was plenty happy to forget them in order to remember nights like these.

Conversation eagerly turns away from dirty back alleys in Orlais to the sparring matches that had taken place today. Scout Harding, No One had no idea who she was, was organising a fighting tourney for the near future. There had been a poster of sorts hung up to one side in the tavern. The Iron Bull had laughed at the fact Varric and Bianca weren’t excluded this time, but he wasn’t going to take part out of sheer spite.

“Who’s Bianca?” No One asks, loud enough that Varric has to beat away the collective groans. The dwarf reels off compliments that sound like they can be attributed to a woman, and they all laugh at No One’s confusion when he starts talking about how her cocking ring doesn’t veer to the left and that you shouldn’t trust the Prince of Starkhaven. The thought of being introduced to a crossbow doesn’t sit too well with him; it sounds like the kind of ridiculous thing someone would say just before they shot someone. But he doesn’t show it.

A few more rounds of Wicked Grace see them into the next hour, and Thom ends up with a few more silvers than he started off with. Quitting whilst he was ahead being the best plan, and he offers up his retirement for the night. A few grumble at him leaving earlier than most, but they all agree it’s probably time for them to close up and pay what they owe for drinking Cabot’s stock. He and Thom hadn’t drank as much as the others, and they walked back side by side giggling over tonight’s events. They felt good, No One felt brilliant. No One hadn’t felt so jubilant after a night with friends in years, he hadn’t even had friends in years.

“Last night then?” Thom asks once they in the privacy of his bedchamber. He unlaces his coat, and shrugs it from his shoulders, turning back to No One, who’s one motion away from dropping his breeches.

“We got handsy outside the tavern, though, you were handsy inside the tavern.” He laughs, letting the breeches fall to the floor as he steps out of them. They’re still too big for him, but the thought is lost as the other man approaches, hands landing on the belt of Thom’s breeches. He tugs it loose quickly, tossing it onto the bed, and slipping both hands into the back of his underthings. “Didn’t think you had a thing for being so public.” He whispers. Thom’s hands find themselves on the upper ridge of No One’s hips, thumbs smoothing over the protrusion of his bones.

“I don’t.” Thom murmurs, at least he thinks he doesn’t. It wasn’t as if privacy was a thing he could afford at some points in his life, and a tumble in the woods wasn’t so bad. “Maybe that’s on you.”

“Perhaps it is, perhaps I could take you against the window, open curtains, sunlight shining through in the morning.” No One says it against the smooth skin of his neck, lips wet and teeth biting. His hips press insistently against Thom’s own, smiling when the motion is reciprocated. He pulls his mouth away, hands lifted from Thom’s arse, and pushing loosened hair behind the man’s ears. “I once heard of a man who had a conservatory built high upon his estate, all glass, he liked hosting his orgies in there, he liked people watching.” He raises his eyebrows to emphasise his words; the nobleman had a lot of coin and an ego to match.

“Heard of?” Thom quotes, an eyebrow raised in suspicion.

“I wasn’t so handsome nor popular enough to be invited to such things.” No One laughs softly, pulling at the hem of Thom’s tunic to lift it over his head. “I did get into a few smoke room after parties.” He admits in after thought, remembering the days before he was a chevalier. He didn’t really sleep around then, and he always excused himself discreetly when people began to shed their clothes and things got far more heated.

“Oh?”

“Hm, they’d bring in various men and women to entertain. But it was all political.” No One shrugs. The noblemen just needed an appetiser to be able to deny why they engaged with certain people in the room. Dukes with Lords, Marquis’ with strictly different ideals ending up gyrating on the floor together; it allowed them to deny affairs and to say they weren’t switching political views. These smoke rooms were arguably one of the few places where the grand game wasn’t played, though that feeling stayed at the door. When it all ended they’d go back to their wives, learn of whatever developments they had made, and forget all about those hours of pleasure.

“I’ve been in a few.” Thom admits, “I got requested or something, posh tit of a nobleman, I ended up taking home one of the girls and a few bottles of brandy.” He offers a rumbling laughter, echoed by No One’s own as he processes the information. The blonde could imagine it; Thom was handsome, foreign, skilled with a blade and probably cocky enough about it to draw unwanted attention. Still, bed the right man and you’d have a patron for life.

Though, those kinds of patrons were awkward at best, and in a few years, it wouldn’t be out of sight to be replaced by someone much younger and much prettier. But for some that was their only option; No One had lived something of that life, sex for favours, and it wasn’t the prettiest. At least he had the ability to leave, some never did. He banishes the thought, cupping Thom’s face in a gentle touch of adoration. His expression switching from admiration to that gleeful lust that could only come at inappropriate times.

“That could be me, requesting you for intimacies in a room full of strangers.” No One whispers, fingernails scraping down Thom’s chest, catching on the hem of his breeches. He pulls at them insistently, until he can once more venture into Thom’s smallclothes. Thom tilts his head to invite No One’s teeth upon his neck once more, and the man follows loyally.

“And how would that go?” He says, trying to stop the grumble of laughter from escaping his lungs. Thom’s hands trail the curves in No One’s back, fingers gracing the mottled scar at the top of his spine and pulling down to the thin lash that lines his waist. His palms travel lower, cupping the swell of his naked arse, pulling him closer.

“I think I’d take you somewhere private, damned be the smoking chambers, I wouldn’t want to share.” He bites just that bit harder, sucking the skin into his mouth, lavishing it with the pointed tip of his tongue. “The gardens? All the women would be inside gossiping, and all the men would be far too preoccupied elsewhere.” He brings his mouth to catch the hairs of Thom’s beard, kissing him until he finds his lips.

“You _do_ have a thing for being out in public.” Thom accuses with mirth, trying to step backwards and out of his boots. He fumbles enough for No One to push away and clamber onto the bed, dropping onto his arse with his legs spread wide, feet tapping anxiously on the floor. It’s obscene. Though the way he grabs Thom’s hand, leading him to straddle his hips, that’s intimate. There’s a small grumble about having to remove his breeches that’s mostly ignored.

Thom crowds him as they kiss, hands framing his face, bent legs framing his thighs. It decimates the cold around him, pulling No One into the warmth that was Thom, as if it meant to devour him. He kisses back with a growing fervour, tongues pressing against each other, tasting of ale and grapes. The lyrium is absent, that awkward tinge of blue missing, and Thom can’t be more thrilled that No One hadn’t pressed those iron caps back in after they’d left. He lifts his hips for a moment, using a hand to lay No One’s cock against his belly, then abandoning it just a second later.

Hands squeeze the curves of his arse, roving over the folds of his stomach and the flesh of his waist, scratching nails following dry palms. One trails to reach between his shoulder blades, to cup high upon the back of his neck, deepening their kiss, addicted to each other’s taste. The other slips under the loosened breaches, the earlier protest filling No One’s mind.

“There’s oil left, yes?” He whispers, biting at Thom’s lips. There’s a nod, a grunt, another kiss. “Go get it, and lose all of this.” No One grins pulling at Thom’s clothing. He follows the other man as he sits back up, trying to keep their mouths tied together. No One feels self-conscious if only for a few seconds; the sight of his marred thigh clear in his vision. But beyond that, Thom tosses his boots, kicking off his socks, and drops his breeches where they land. “How is your arse hair, by the way?” He laughs, readjusting himself to sit at the top of the bed. Thom offers him a two fingered salute without turning back to him, and digs in the vanity for the oil.

“Where’d you get this from anyway?” Thom shakes the bottle at him, hitting the drawer shut with his knee as he came back to the bed.

“I think it was part of a bundle for Trevelyan’s sister,” No One shrugs, taking the bottle from the other man and holding it in his palm. “I overheard the maid talking about it, figured it was easy oil, and it has little pictures of peaches on the bottle.” He points them out with a sarcastic smile; ruined by the laughter that bubbles from his chest. Thom hits him lightly on the shoulder, taking a seat on No One’s thighs, taking back both the bottle and his lips.

Maxence had, for the better part of his life, endured the consistent whispers of what his father had done. He has the vivid memory of being pulled aside by a senior enchanter and taken to the Knight Commander, when he was thirteen and told about his father’s criminality; warned that if he should get in contact that he should immediately tell the templars. Andrastopher Cousland was a wanted man. Then he had fought off the blight singlehandedly and saved Ferelden.

It hadn’t changed anything back then, he was still the same apprentice he was before. But then other rumours had begun to surface, about what had happened at Kinloch Hold, and he was moved from Hasmal’s circle to Kirkwall’s, forgoing his Cousland title entirely. Maxence dropped his Fereldan accent, choosing instead to speak his mother’s tongue. He took the aggression that was aimed at him for being Orlesian, for it was far better than being the son of Kinloch Hold’s personal blight.

Though his Cousland heritage had found him again when Edlyn was transferred to Kirkwall’s circle as well. She had kept his secret without fault, though she made a point of updating him on everything the Grey Warden did.

_He’s Commander of the Grey now, Maxence!_

_I didn’t think someone could be Arl and Teryn._

_I heard he’s conscripting people from the noose now, mages too, do you think he’d come here?_

Maxence had begun to think she had a crush on him for all that she talked about him. But at least it kept him on his toes. His mother kept him somewhat informed, though she hadn’t received much in the way of letters from him in years. There was an absence that he had to endure when Edlyn had been made Tranquil, she had far more fire in her, a desire to be free like they deserved. Knight Commander Meredith had squashed her, and many others, without a single care. He wondered whether his father had been the same, but the comparison was something of madness, and he had locked it far away in his mind.

As the restrictions in Kirkwall’s circle grew he felt as if he should be fighting, allying with the mages he had made friends with, the ones he had fallen in love with. But he hadn’t. Whatever he had thought about his father, at least he wasn’t a coward. Maxence had done everything the templars had told him; he was a spirit healer, and those, especially the obedient ones, had been a rarity that dwindled every day. Edlyn had died in the battle; all Tranquil had been put to the sword. Whether they had simply gotten in the way of the templars, or whether their fellow mages had killed them in sympathy.

Maxence had stayed behind then too. Healing people on both sides when he could, broken limbs, open wounds, he was running through the Gallows exhausted and cursing himself for not paying attention in class to learn how to defend himself.

But he had survived. He stood at the entrance to the Gallows, looking upon the corpses of both sides, some mottled with signs of abomination, others bearing only an arrow to the skull. Maxence had pulled everything and every spirit of aide he could to heal those that could be saved. There wasn’t anything for his effort, only fleeting thanks from mages and templars alike who limped from the battlefield.

Two of the mages, twin sisters, had found him collapsing as he poured what little magic he had left in him into an unconscious templar. Maxence had those two to thank for his life, for they had dragged him onto a boat to Ferelden, and people had parted when they recognised him, giving him room to be laid down; for he had saved many of those who were prepared to take ship and flee.

All of the mages had escaped into Ferelden and abandoned their staves and robes in favour of looking like normal people. Maxence had been forced to go with them; the twins, Eir and Urd Hallsteinn, had stuck with him kindly. They had taken refuge where they could, eventually making their way to Redcliffe. Maxence had taken a position in seniority, healing those that needed it. Eir and Urd had strength in battle magics, and they had stood their ground making sure no templars made their way to the little village they had found a haven in. They had all been conscripted into the Inquisition, peacefully to some degree, and Maxence had been thrilled that both of the twins had stayed with him when they journeyed to both Inquisition holds.

Though it’s the first memory, whence he was pulled aside at thirteen, that’s stark inside of his memory at this moment on this very morning.

The spymaster’s crook wasn’t so bad, it definitely wasn’t as intimidating as Hasmal’s Knight Commander’s office, though he had only been there on grants of good behaviour. Now, he felt as if he had done something wrong. Maxence had pulled at the curls of his hair multiple times, trying to push it behind his curling ears, and deciding that it just made everything look more of a mess.

Declaring he was the son of Andrastopher Cousland had been imperative to being allowed into Skyhold. They knew he had been lying about who his father was, saying he didn’t know his parents was hardly believable when he had lived as lavish as a mage could in those circles. Maxence had given in eventually, begging them not to tell anyone. Which, as far as he could tell, they hadn’t.

It’s not a pleasant thing, to have to be ashamed of his father for who he was. But he couldn’t help but assume that he would be ashamed of him, knowing he was mage, and one who so openly communed with spirits. Maxence had convinced himself it was better all-around if they stayed away from each other, even if his mother hated it.

The thought of going up to him in Skyhold, speaking to him openly, speaking to him for no other reason than because he was his son; it had crossed his mind more than once. Maxence hadn’t ever done it, only watching from the tower that gave him a higher view than most. The tattoos that his father had across his face and arms had been an odd sight to see, he had written to his mother asking her if she knew what he’d done to himself. Her reply had been vague at best.

“Enchanter Cousland.” Leliana greets, taking steps passed him and towards the window, so that she may glance out and not look at the young man she had ordered here. The courtyards were bustling below with the morning schedules, and from here she could see her spy making friends with the young Caldwell.

“Enchanter Moirierre or Maxence, please.” He says, trying not to bite his tongue in irritation. Anyone could hear them up here, anyone could be listening. Maxence may have only lived in Orlais briefly, but he wasn’t so dim he couldn’t see the grand game taking its rightful place. He does what he can to try and disassemble the spymaster’s appearance, it’s not hard to see the leather she wears is so similar to those of the templar order. Most would claim it is her religion which causes her to dress as such, but he sees the shackles before the chainmail.

“I wanted to speak about your father.” She pushes down her hood as she approaches him, attempting to disarm him by looking friendlier. Edlyn had that same bright ginger hair, though there was no sunburst upon Leliana’s forehead.

“You’d be better suited talking to someone else, I haven’t spoken to him in years.” He says, catching her gaze and holding it intently. The lies might have been prevalent in his earlier days in Skyhold, but nowadays he claimed the truth more often than not.

“But you will.” She says it so definitely, as if it was something unavoidable, that it riles Maxence down to his bones. He and his father had shared a common home in Skyhold for quite some time now, and not a word had passed between them. In fact, Maxence had spent more time in Skyhold’s tower than ever before just to avoid him.

“I… _will?_ ” He scoffs, a disbelieving smile falling upon his lips. With a jabbing finger he stabs at the table, leaning forward to enunciate his words with a feel of strength. “What I do in my own personal business isn’t any of your business.” This reminded him too much of the templars, their big armoured noses sticking into everyone’s business.

“You are still a conscript of the Inquisition.”

“I’m here to heal those who need aid, and to teach those with gifts like me, so if you don’t want my magic or my ability then throw me in the dungeons.” Maxence stands from his seat, pushing down the creases in his robes, the glittering chains of gold that rest at his waist sing with protest at the movement, but he pays it no mind. “I’m not fool enough to be played like this.”

“As you wish, Enchanter Cousland, you’re free to go.” Leliana gestures to the staircase, turning away from the young boy to gaze once more out of the window.

“You’re going to tell the others, aren’t you? The mages, by nightfall they’ll all know.” He bites his cheeks and feels his fist clenching in the skirts of his robes. “Fine, but you’re throwing your sword at the opposition and hoping they’ll fall on it for you.” The threat doesn’t garner any attention, and he can’t tell if he’s grateful for that or not. She will have heard him say it, and she’ll keep it in mind for whatever she has planned for him in the future; something he’s not so keen on figuring out.

He walks out of there quickly, lifting the hem of his royale sea silk robes as he descends the stairs so as not to literally fall. Maxence begins to wonder what his father could have done to anger the Inquisition, from the tales he had heard, the man had never quite been the most graceful. The story of how Loghain called for his arrest in Denerim only a few minutes before duelling the Hero of River Dane and dethroning him, was one that he had heard far too many times. Edlyn had been fond of that, she had loved a good story about toppling royal houses. She firmly believed you needed to demolish the foundation to start anew, there was little point to building with the past and hoping for a brighter future.

Maxence has to squeeze passed a set of scouts who don’t wish to move out of his way. It’s hard to decide whether they did it on purpose or that they didn’t even see him trying to get through. The latter is hardly reasonable, he was almost seven foot, though admittedly a few inches of that was dark curling hair. Paranoia begins to seep into him as it had done all those years ago; the curse of being a hero’s son. He almost felt sorry for the man who had turned up as the Inquisitor’s illegitimate child, Maxence had years to deal with being who he was, and those years he had spent hiding.

The tower is as welcoming as it was when he had left. Lucia is thrilled to see him return, eyes brightening to see her tutor back to take over from Matrin’s droll lessons. She had a head of unruly blonde curls that bounced as she walked, and she had a good attitude for a child who had only known warfare as a mage. Maxence offers a sympathetic smile to Matrin, who rolls his eyes and stands slowly from his seat, wincing at how his bones had set.

Eir and Urd had once laughed that the girl had something of a crush on Maxence; she was only twelve and already falling in love. Though, they had commented that Lucia wasn’t the only one. The healer had caught the eye of many over the years, mostly people of a more appropriate age, though had never put enough time aside to engage in intimacies as such. He wondered if that was all going to change, not just the crushes, but the respect he had built for himself here. If they heard the name Maxence and only thought of his father’s assistance to the Right of Annulment, and not the healing hands that he had so carefully cultivated.

Lucia had paid attention carefully to the movements of his hands, not only was magic a force from within, but it helped to mimic the movements of those who couldn’t use magic. A slab of uncooked meat sat before them, a score made with the sharp edge of a dagger, and Maxence stitched it clean with magic until it bore no evidence. Though he explained that the absence of a lingering mark wasn’t something that could always be done. Especially on the battle field. Most of the time it was only sealing the wound until they could re-examine it at a safer period later, scars were not always harmless in certain places. She nods eagerly, and attempts to stitch the new wound that Maxence had inflicted on the slab.

He retires to his own room, one shared with several others for the sake of space, far earlier than he usually would. A claim of a headache lets him sneak through unopposed. His bed creaks slightly from loose nails as he sits upon it, pulling out his small box of belongings. Most of it was things from Orlais, a sketch of he, his mother, and his step-father Laramie Duguay held in a broken glass frame; small titbits of gifts from family; a small statuette of a lion, a painted locket, a pair of woollen gloves that no longer fitted him.

Some of the items were gifts from fellow mages, little carved things, strange stones, a length of enchanted string, things to decorate staves with. He’d stripped his of those little items before abandoning the staff on the shores of Ferelden, and he hadn’t put them back on his own stave yet. One such thing, a little lopsided wooden carving of a griffon; a gift from Edlyn, before they’d brandished her.

Maxence had been in love with her.

The Twelve Shields didn’t particularly have room for the group of Wardens that came in out of the rain, shaking their waterlogged boots for the minor flood that had made its mark in the surrounding area. Andrastopher had asked for stables to fit ten horses, and rooms and hots baths to fit seven people and three mabaris; the innkeeper had seen the coin before counting the rooms they had to spare and accepted with stubby fingers. Though she had paled when she saw the group entering, she had assumed them to be prim and properly dressed Wardens, not a group of rough-looking men and women. Still, the promise of more coin prevailed.

They ate heartily, taking portions of fourths and fifths or meat stew before drinking the same in ale. It was only one of them who could barely manage to finish his first bowl, but anyone could recognise the colours of his uniform. Andrastopher eats more than the others, sitting back with a distended belly that pokes out from his armour to leave him with a visible swell. It’s the first time he’s been full in over a week. Though he forgoes ale, favouring the skin of water he’s kept at his side.

Questions had been asked all through yesterday, they had desisted as they rode. Andrastopher was still clear on keeping Oscar in the dark, but there were times when he was cornered alone and he answered as best as he could. They had all gathered enough wood to build pyres for the three fallen, and Andrastopher had lead the ceremony to give them their final rights once more. It had been a sorrowful time, some had been angry at Colt’s pyre, a death that was undeserved. He had made the attempt to explain why the Joining was always so secretive, nobody would want to join the Wardens if they might die without doing anything. Colt would have told someone, and rumours would spread. It was better he died serving the Wardens with his permanent silence.

It left them with a tension in the air, and it was obvious that it brewed around their Warden Commander. But ale got their tongues working again, and it wasn’t long before sorrowful memories were breached by drunken tales and unbelievable stories.

The Joining had bonded them, whatever they thought of the whole ordeal, they had endured it together. Annelise had laughed that the most humiliating thing was being carried to bed by the Warden Commander. Though Dian had noticed the embarrassment that had flushed upon Oscar’s cheeks, and she shot him a smile of sympathy. A serving boy comes over to tell them their baths are heated, but there’s only three tubs available. Andrastopher takes his first, Dian and Kina winning on a dice roll to get the others.

The tub is a simple one, made of wood, bound with iron, and clearly meant for a man of average stature. Stripping from his armour is done quickly, each one deposited by the bed he had chosen. It’s with almost shaking hands that he peels off his breeches, grimacing at the mud that remains on them, and wincing at the sight of his legs. He sits on the edge of the bed, a thumb running over the welt like marks.

He had been avoiding dealing with his legs, the braces that had clung to his skin with sweat and rainwater. Unbuckling the belts had been easy, as had been pulling out the lengths of steel which remained in leather sheaths. But pulling the leather from his skin, it jerks unpleasantly, pulling out hairs and tugging skin from fresh blisters. Some even spill with blood, though he pulls on what he had endured to become Tallis; stepping into the heated water with a denied groan.

It’s better than a river by all means, and he has a medicinal soap to run across his legs. Grimacing at the sting it leaves in its wake but knowing the lathery elfroot will do wonders for his skin. At least Zevran shan’t see the mess they’re in right now. If it weren’t for Oscar’s desperation to get to Amaranthine, and the Wardens he now travelled with, he’d have walked the entire way. He hated riding horseback. Andrastopher washes the rest of himself with efficiency, standing from the bath reluctantly and drying himself. He sits on his bed naked, using the dampened towel to wash the leather of the braces, and then drying them with another.

The straps of the brace line up with old scars, gracing the balder patches and now healed scabs as he redresses himself. He dresses in the fresher pair of black breeches and black tunic, taking the others to a washer’s board with his old bath water. A line of rope runs the centre of the small room, and he throws his clothes up to dry once he considers them clean enough. He’ll work on his armour next, not polishing it exactly; that could wait until they were in Amaranthine. But cleaning mud and old blood from it, that was something he needed to do.

“Ser?” A voice calls from the other side of the door.

“Come in.” Andrastopher says, wringing out the water of his breeches once more. He hangs them on the rope like the others, flattening the creases between his fingers. The fire was burning hot enough to have them all dry by the morning, or at least dry enough to be folded and not have that lingering smell of damp.

“I used Dian’s bathwater, and I think Oscar is using Kina’s.” Lei says as he enters, obviously trying to avert his eyes from the bath before he realises that Andrastopher is decently clothed. He has to push hair from his eyes repeatedly, it falls in clumped strands whispering of curls above his brows, another week and they could all see the barber in Amaranthine. Lei had grown something of a beard with the time they had travelled, it made him look older, but he scratched at it often enough that it must have been irritating him. Lawrence had a shaving kit with him that remained in his saddlebag after his death, but nobody had wished to disturb the items that belonged to those gone. Those would all be sent back tot the Auffryes with a letter of condolence and congratulation of his service.

“Have I been that long?” He asks, dropping his last dirty tunic into the slightly brown water. His fingers have started to wrinkle under the exposure, but he drags it over the ridged board using an unscented soap to lather at the worst stains.

“It’s no problem, I mean, Dian’s a dwarf and ‘Lise was a bandit so baths aren’t really her thing.” He laughs, dropping onto one of the other beds, unlacing the ties of his boots. They land with a heavy clunk and a sigh erupting from Lei’s chest. He wiggles his toes as he pulls off his socks, picking them up from the floor and balling them together.

“She has bathed though?” Andrastopher pauses for a moment, glancing at Lei’s pleasure; were his boots too tight?

“Oh, yes.” He scratches at his jaw in embarrassment, clearing his throat before speaking again. Andrastopher might have explained to him that there was little to dignity in the Wardens, but he hadn’t expected to see Annelise bare-chested at any point in time, though he wouldn't be forgetting it soon either. Lei chews his lip and fiddles with his socks, they could do with a wash, so could his tunic. “Should I do mine? The clothes, I mean.” He gestures loosely to the Warden Commander.

“It’s my water, I can do them for you.” He says, picking the tunic from the water to figure out whether it was clean enough. Most of his under clothing was black, but this was an off-white colour, tinged pink here and there from blood. In the creases of its back and the upper chest was far more yellow, but the smell didn’t linger even if the stains had. “Just drop them here.”

“If you’re sure?” Lei asks, brows pinching. He tosses his socks into the pile to Andrastopher’s side, pulling his tunic over his head and dropping that there too. “It just feels like it should be the other way around, what with me being your apprentice.” He gestures loosely, shrugging lightly, wondering how appropriate it was to stand in front of his Warden Commander in naught but his smallclothes. He had already seen him naked.

“We’re not training to be washer women.” Andrastopher offers a raised brow and wrings out his tunic; it was clean enough. Lei steps out of his breeches, and rummages through his pack to throw some more clothes on the pile. He has wide shoulders, and he slims dramatically at the waist, but his legs are strong. There’s little hair to him, and a few scars that seems noteworthy; one is a puncture wound that travels straight through, but Andrastopher doesn’t ask. He knows it’s an arrow wound, he the same scars on his upper right side; darkspawn arrows, they were jagged things and left worse scars than the clean steel arrowheads that others used.

Oscar joins them at some point, and Andrastopher takes his clothes as well. Oaklain has something of a joyful time rolling in Lei’s dirtier clothes, scenting himself enough that Andrastopher doesn’t have the heart to force him into the bath. Another length of rope is used to hang the clothes, tied on the same rungs as the other. The two men sleep heavily, weight down with alcohol, but Andrastopher can feel the nightmare that claws at him with fatigue. So he scrubs at the clothes harder, hoping the jarring movements might keep him awake long enough to see the sunrise.

Everleigh sleeps pressed against him on the bed, feet twitching in her own dream. He smooths down the fur over her neck, and her tail attempts to wag though it’s weak and drained under her sleep. It was a good dream at the very least. Holden used his mother’s back as a pillow to rest his head on but opened an eye every so often just to check all was well. Oaklain snored at the foot of Lei’s bed; the young man hadn’t been thrilled at receiving the mabari, he thought it a guilt-ridden gift. Though Andrastopher had explained things well enough that Lei accepted the bond Oaklain had offered him.

His armour is still muddy, and he never got the chance to ask Lawrence to clean the vomit from his shoe, though the flood had done something to get rid of the smell. It’s all cleaned before daybreak, a fine brush having crept into all the detail and something of a shine added to it despite his earlier thoughts. It wasn’t finished entirely, but it’s good enough. He can only hope the others thought to wash their clothes, since they wouldn’t be camping near a water source and they would have no opportunity to do so until Amaranthine.

With the sunrise he notes that today is the nineteenth of Drakonis; today is Maxence’s twenty-sixth nameday. Andrastopher could remember that day, both full of fear and excitement; holding that little squealing bundle in his too large palms, it made Maxence look so small, so fragile. A little boy, born against the odds, had reduced a giant to tears. The blight had taken years away from them knowing each other, it was for the best, but there were no words to describe its cruelty.

He remembers sitting in the estate gardens, flowers in full bloom, the smell of pollen was heavy and Annette walked with a handkerchief over his nose to stem her allergies. Andrastopher was painting it, Maxence had tired himself out running around with their mabari, Bisou, and had fallen asleep on one of the benches in the shade. The painting was unfinished when he awoke, scrubbing at his face and pushing the wild curls of his hair back from his face. He’d stood with his mouth open at the image, smudging it slightly when he touched the wet paint. Andrastopher had sat him on his lap and let him finish the rest, large splotches of flowers that didn’t quite fit, and a squashed Bisou on one side.

Andrastopher thinks of the first time he’d gotten Maxence a bow, kneeling down behind him and showing him how to properly hold it. There’s fainter memories of riding with him, lifting him onto the large stallion that proudly bore Andrastopher’s lanky frame; Maxence crying at the height and wailing to get off. He remembers the teenage wrath he had suffered when they had explained he and Annette weren’t a couple anymore, and how Maxence blamed him for ruining everything.

Memories of Maxence filled his mind until it was a more appropriate time to awaken. Andrastopher dresses silently, taking down the clothes that were hung around the room and folding them all. The second length of rope is neatly stored amongst his saddle, and he gestures for his mabaris to follow him outside. Oaklain follows as well, and they all run to relieve themselves, sniffing each other as they did so. There isn’t anyone else around at this time, only a stable boy yawning at the early hour. If he notices Andrastopher he doesn’t make a move to say anything.


	47. Devour

No One is absent when Thom wakes up, something he’s used to for the way the man flits around and now works in the early hours. But today he wasn’t supposed to be in the tavern’s kitchen, which meant he had left early and Thom has the joy of waiting around until the blonde shows his face. Either that or the blonde hadn’t come back last night after a late wandering. It’s an easy enough situation, it gives them time to be alone, so as not to drown in each others’ presence. That didn’t mean there were times when Thom would wish to be able to awaken before him. Those were plentiful, for No One always managed to be awake first; the man was an early riser and Thom couldn’t do anything about it.

Though if it meant awakening to lips trailing over his stomach, boned fingers brushing through his hair; well, he wasn’t one to complain. Still, he’ll admit to himself, it’s more than nice to reciprocate such things. To scale his fingers across the rivets of No One’s ribs, to trace the scar that segments his lips. He sighs loudly and scrubs at his face, would it be so bad to find him and drag him back to bed? It wasn’t as if there was something pressing for him to attend. Even with the war on, it’s slowing down to something of an unsettling comforting pace. It would leave men open if they forgot they were fighting.

Thom dresses slowly, half hoping the blonde would burst in with an iron grin and simply wrest the man from the fabric. It doesn’t happen, he knew it wouldn’t, but he waits just that bit longer just in case. He sits at his vanity, lifting his chin to see the stubbled skin of his neck. With heavy palms he scrapes back the length of his beard, giving way to something of the shape of his jaw. Things were still too raw to go back to being Thom Rainier; smooth shaven with short hair. Despite what happened with the Orlesian monarchy, Celene still had allies, and as did the Calliers, and nobles flocked to Skyhold like no other. Sometimes he would hear titters of his name between rushed lips, people hadn’t forgotten, they hadn’t forgiven. The people were sill adjusting to a new monarch, it’s effect rippling cross Thedas, and Thom would throw stones into already unsteady waters.

He doesn’t know if he will ever be truly absent from his crimes. Perhaps forgotten in history, the name Blackwall would be given solely back to Gordon’s family, and not smeared by Rainier. But Varric was writing a book about the Inquisition, he had seen everything first hand, he had been at the gallows in Val Royeaux. The dwarf had called him gutsy for doing it, getting up in front of a crowd like that, to stay a hanging. He hadn’t felt very brave, more ashamed than anything else. Full of the emptiness that follows a man who’s ready to die.

Thom tugs at his beard until it sits in two prongs, the same style that Blackwall had, and keeps it in place with the slightest bit of oil. It was a common thing for Grey Wardens to have beards, he might have laughed about it with Sera, but it was true. Those that milled around Skyhold had beards if they could grow them. Some were short and cut close to the chin, others had long trailing things that tickled their bellies. One dwarf had a beard that she braided into three trails, heavy with adornments that clacked together when she walked. Thom had though her rather attractive once, but as Blackwall he couldn’t have done anything about it. Now the thought didn’t cross his mind too often.

Things, as they were, weren’t the best; he still hadn’t found half of his men who were alive, and the leads he had before had all fallen through. Goddard had promised him that the men who were under his order were only following commands, and the blame was lain at Thom’s feet, and now forgiven by Andraste’s Herald. They were free men living in fear, and Thom only wanted to tell them they hadn’t anything to worry about now, and to apologise for what he had done. Not to seek forgiveness, he knew he had no right to do such a thing; after all, some of his men were caught and they were hanged for their crimes whilst he had hidden away. They had died in place of him, and that guilt could never be pardoned, nor would he want to forget.

The thought of the men he had left behind to hold his shackles and bear his guilt, he wonders if No One has anything like that. Thom knows about Dana, the elf who gave him a mule to flee, who was killed for her actions. But were there others? Friends, family, a well-meaning inn keeper who gave him a room despite his appearance. The man had told him the truth, how it had happened, the death of two chevaliers, one his fault and the other not; though he’d no doubt he’d be blamed for all of them. Thom knew enough about the Chevaliers to know they cleaned up after themselves, and those two chevaliers might not have been the only ones to die in No One’s escape.

He wonders about No One, chevalier deserter, fleeing for eighteen years, whether Goddard could grant him absolution too. No One was working towards being a better man; he’d stopped fighting, he’d stopped hating himself, he’d got a job and eight coppers in his pocket. Perhaps it wasn’t the four years Thom had worked falsely as a Warden, but it was no less important. He huffs slightly, stroking his hair back with his grin reflecting in the looking glass opposite. No One made him proud, and sometimes, that acknowledgement was all that was needed to correct the wrong path.

Thom pushes himself from the vanity stool, swirls something in his mouth to keep his teeth fresh, and sets about finding the blonde. Varric points him in the direction of the gardens, after pulling him aside to ask some questions about what he did for those four years as Blackwall once more. Thom offers a huff of laughter at the coincidence and attempts to explain what he tried to do. Blackwall had told him a Warden’s hands were good for far more than just fighting darkspawn, sometimes people just needed a little bit of help, and they were there to do that. If it gained them favour then it wouldn’t hurt the order, and they could do with having a few more fans around Thedas.

A sad look passes over Varric’s face, the state of the Grey Wardens today, it was a sorrowful thing. That blue uniform was a heavy burden to bear, and they all knew of the animosity they now received for what had happened at Adamant. More so for the death of the Divine; nobody had been able to stop that from coming out. Varric could have lost Hawke in there, during the siege of Adamant. True, they hadn’t been the most agreeable of friends, but they were still as such. Instead they had lost Loghain; and the Hero of River Dane became nothing more than a name in a longer list of them. Some called it justice, Loghain abandoned the king to die, it was fitting to have him die in such similar circumstance.

The gardens are particularly nice, they always are; carefully cultivated and magically maintained to ensure that plants might grow here. An abundance of elfroot leads to many arguments, but that familiar blonde isn’t on his usual bench, and he can’t find Sister Nelda to ask her where he might have gone. Unless he’d circled back and Varric hadn’t seen him pass through again, then there’s only one place he could be. He has to awkwardly shuffle passed several groups of people, before he can grasp the door latch he needs to.

“Didn’t think I’d find you here.” Thom admits, stepping into the smaller private chantry; the statue of Andraste staring down at them with something of a kindred smile upon her marble lips. He had always thought it odd that the chantries were always decorated to the highest standard, the poorest praying to solid gold statues, there was something wrong with that. No One sits at the foot of the dais it stands on, bare feet tapping against the stone.

“I used to be a Brother.” No One shrugs, wincing at the pain his back protests with. He offers Thom a seat on the raised platform, handing him the red wax candle he had in hand. It was customary to light one before praying, but it didn’t look as if No One had done either of those things. Perhaps he was about to, and all Thom had done was interrupt.

“Peeling spuds giving you second thoughts?” He chuckles, scraping some of the softer wax away under his nails.

“No,” He says, taking back the item before Thom whittles it to nothing. “It’s my uncle’s nameday soon, we always used to light a candle for him.” The words are spoken softly, with the hope of a child encasing them.

“Sorry.”

“It’s fine, I always thought it was kind of annoying when I was a kid. But it’s a tradition, _perhaps he might see the light and come home_ , is what my father would say.” No One reaches behind him to take the flame of another candle, watching the wick begin to blacken before it alights and dances with newfound vigour. “Makes me wonder if they light one for me.” He adds softly, holding it aloft. The flame was captivating, and the light gave No One an excuse to blink away the sting behind his eyes.

“Come here.” Thom slips an arm around his shoulders, pulling him to rest against his side. He hears the barest sniff and the sigh of a heaving chest; and his lips grace the darkened roots of that blonde hair. It’s easy to forget the mourning that follows No One, even the name’s meaning has been lost to a familiar tongue. The man always seemed so contented, there were only a handful of times that he had broken down, sobbing as if the will to retain that façade had abandoned him entirely. But there was eighteen years of loneliness that followed him, eighteen years that others had lived without him.

It hits Thom again, it does every so often, the impact that No One had. A man who thought he was nothing, had so much to him that he had left a carved impact on so many lives. Two brothers and a sister, all without their eldest sibling, a daughter absent of her true father, a daughter who was now a woman grown. Thom pulls him in tighter, kissing those roots again, holding his head against his lips and inhaling deeply of him. To keep the man with no name within and without, to remind him that he might believe himself to be nothing, but he was far more in Thom’s eyes.

“I hope they don’t.” No One whispers, pulling away and pushing his fingers into the corners of his eyes. He twists his frame to drip wax onto Andraste’s dais, and sets the candle within the little pool of red. “I hope my brother has a shitty son who hates it as much as I did, and sneaks down in the night when he’s angry to blow the thing out.” A laughter tickles his lips, his throat cleared of swelling, and a smile sent to Thom. Perhaps that was why he had waited for so long, trailing over and over his thoughts until Thom had stepped in with a smile.

“Is that what you did?” He raises a brow, his own smile mirroring No One’s own. He can almost imagine it, a blur of a child with dark hair, quenching a flame between spit covered fingertips, or with lips pursed in windy defiance.

“No, but my uncle never came home, did he?” He says, there’s no grief in his frame; No One never knew his uncle. There was a mourning in him that didn’t quite fit, how was he supposed to grieve for a man he never knew? “We lit candles for years and he never once came back.” No One had always assumed him dead, but his father never gave up hope.

“You will, one day.” Thom says, brows pinching upwards and the corners of his eyes crinkling in memories. “Reclaiming my name allowed me to reconnect with people I hadn’t written to in years, my family, firstly.” He had written his apologies first, he didn’t seem to have enough parchment to write on with the words that came tumbling from his fingers. But those first letters back, apprehensive, but overjoyed, their boy Thom hadn’t been dead, and he wasn’t going to be hanged the minute he came home. Though that wouldn’t be any time soon, he had pledged loyalty to the Inquisition and this was far from over.

“I like No One, he has a job, a home, someone to share a bed with.” No One snorts, nudging his shoulder into Thom’s.

“And what about your shitty nephew?”

“He grows up without an uncle like I did, hearing the stories about how good he was, ignoring all the bad because that’s what family does.” He shrugs, leaning back on his palms. Living without an uncle was an easy thing to do, more since he’d never met him. His nephews, if he had any, they’d feel the same. Though, at least his own uncle hadn’t been a fugitive, or perhaps he had, and they’d never told him. Perhaps they don’t even speak of him; a deserter in a family of chevalier pride, he was the outcast, the shameful one, tainted with abandonment. They wouldn’t be lighting candles for a man like him.

Thom can see No One thinking through things, he doesn’t know what for the man doesn’t speak them, but there’s a smile on his lips that doesn’t reach his eyes. He reaches to grab No One’s hand, a comforting gesture that brings him back to the world. But he doesn’t say anything, rather, he gives No One the chance to confess to something, to confess whatever ailed his memories. Though nothing comes, he only offers a closed lipped smile and a silent plea in his eyes for Thom to stop the silence. For there is nothing more maddening than the lack of anything.

“So, he spends his life lighting candles for a man he’s never met? And your name goes up in smoke and melts in the wax?” Thom asks, gesturing to the dozens of wax pillars behind them. Some were flickering with light, others naught but a crooked wick. They were lit in prayer, in thoughts of lost loved once, a sign to ask the Maker that he may take mercy on them. “Nothing more than the stub of an old burnt out candle?”

“Perhaps that’s all I deserve.”

“You’re more than that.” He huffs, grabbing No One’s face in his hands, forcing the man to look at him. Grey eyes, Thom had always assumed, but up close, in this light, they’re almost completely white, save the redness of fatigue and the pinprick of black. “You’re more than whatever drivel you’re filling your head with. No One, the stupid name, it doesn’t fit you any longer, because you’re not no-one.” His words are spoken harshly, but if only to deny them any place but in his mind.

“Then who am I?” He huffs, his words breathless and lacking their usual glee. Thom doesn’t know his name, but he knows who he is; a kind man with oddities and a yearning for reading, barefooted and resistant to the chills of winter, a lover of all things peach flavoured and a beggar with a nobleman’s hands. No One simply was someone, and there was nothing more to it. But these words failed Thom, he’d spent the last few days insisting that No One was a romantic, but what was it for Thom’s lips that was the barrier between his thoughts and his heart.

No One was a man with compassion under scarred skin, desire held tightly in the cave of his ribs, pride in the slightest of things; pride in eight coppers and a nick on his knuckle from a peeling knife. A voice undeserving of the ears he graces it with, an unwavering loyalty to those he cares about; a man who saw himself as the darkness that swallows the light, and not the flame that fights it. No One simply was, and that’s all he had to be.

“You’re not a bloody candle.” He whispers. No One’s laugh bursts through his lips and he hangs his head in Thom’s palms, snorting with half hidden giggles, fingers carding through his hair and catching over gloved knuckles. He brings Thom’s lips to his own, a tenderness passed through touch if not sound. It’s sweet and gentle, the way their lips open just a fraction, pressing closer. No One’s back bows to reach nearer, one hand taking his weight and the other gripping the back of Thom’s neck.

It’s an almost obscene place to kiss, beneath the statue of Andraste. But Thom’s hand lands on his thigh, and the fabric of his breeches sing out against the stone as he shifts, the cloth fighting against the movement. It’s the thigh that bears those scars, but fingers trail over, grabbing the other and tugging the man closer. Thom feels like a youth again, hiding in the chantry at night to kiss one of the Sisters; and just as those times were shattered by a disapproving Mother, this one was as well. A forced cough brings them apart, and both men glance up as if nothing was amiss.

The Mother inclines her head in a sharp twitch, telling them to leave without uttering a word, and holds the door open for them. She holds her head high, pointed nose raised in defiance of commoner men. No One snorts in disbelief, chewing on his tongue to stem his laughter. He feels a hand wrap around his elbow, falling the length of his forearm and squeezing his palm to lead him away. It wasn’t a fight worth having, and No One’s faith had gotten him beaten bloody before.

“I have a girl’s name, you know?” No One whispers, an arm slung around Thom’s shoulders as they walked. He kisses the other man’s temple, glancing back at the Mother to send a frown her way; they’d been having a moment. Thom’s arm wraps around his waist, hand loosely wresting on the crest of his hip. The usual druffalo wool blanket hadn’t yet made its debuted return, but the high-collared tunic was thicker, made for colder nights, though the hem was still pulled into a knot one side to keep it short. Perhaps the man as warm enough in just the tunic, it certainly suited him, it seemed to lengthen his neck, and hid the prominent bones in his shoulders.

“Really?” Thom snorts, an eyebrow raised at No One’s grin. Was the man taking the piss?

“Hm, that’s half the reason I can’t tell anyone, all you Marcher bastards ruined it for me.” He laughs, jabbing Thom in the gut with a pointed finger. “I mean with _this_ face, aye, I’d make a poor woman.” His grin is iron, and it shines with delight in the morning sun. Thom thinks he must be taking the piss.

“Oh, I don’t know, I could see you in a pearl necklace.” He innocently shrugs as best he can with an arm around him, and he sees the lust alight in No One’s white eyes, and his tongue poking against the inside of his cheek.

“I hope that’s a promise, Ser Rainier.” He grins, and whispers lowly, thick with his natural accent, “I long to adorn you upon myself.” He bites the shell of Thom’s ear, tongue pressing in the edge of its natural curl. It makes Thom’s toes twist in the safety of his leather boots, and those dark pinprick pupils are thick with desire. It’s a pity when Varric waves them over, a questioning frown transforming into a sparked grin.

They pardon their way through the crowd, the chantry folk were out in droves this Makersday, and grab a seat each beside Varric. Opposite each other Thom watches No One’s fingers as he pulls apart the laces of his collar, making enough of an effort to scratch at his collarbone, and to expose the silver scar that glances his chest. He pinches some of Varric’s morning platter; thick slices of oranges with a selection of breads and sweetened honey. He stacks them enough to make the dwarf frown at his eagerness, an excess of honey, using his tongue to swipe it from his fingers. Thom notices there’s no issue in No One taking out the iron caps any more, but he’s inclined to watch those fingers disappear into the man’s mouth. It wasn’t done overtly in a lusting way, but with thoughts of those lips on something else, it pollutes Thom’s mind like nothing else. He can’t tell if he’s doing it on purpose or not. The absolute bastard.

Maxence spends the morning trying to get the rest that had fled him last night. Worry seemed to swarm him as it got darker, and he lay only on his back so he might see anyone who came upon him in the night. His mind swirled with memories of mages spitting about his father. Twisting words and tales, claiming that the whole thing was a cover up; the templars had killed the mages without reason, and promised Andrastopher their loyalty in the coming battle if he lied for them. But some resisted, and the Warden cut them down without hesitation. Which rumour was stated did nothing to bring his father into a kindred light.

He vividly remembers being cornered by older mages, threatening him over his name, calling him a spy, claiming that he would turn into an abomination and recreate the massacre of Kinloch Hold. Odd that it had been a templar to break it up. Though, that had made it worse, at least he’d been able to write his mother and pay to be moved. Kirkwall was the best they could offer, which had been fine, at first; the circle had needed more spirit-healers. Maxence glances down at his hands, perhaps this was why he tried so hard to be who he was; he didn’t want to kill anyone, he didn’t want any more blood on his family’s name.

Though he can’t pin it on that solely. There’s so many memories of his childhood being measured and assessed by healers that brought a fascination with them. His father was always there, and he’d leave for a few minutes with them and return looking lighter than before. It had taken him a few years before his mother had told him why he had endured all of that; there hadn’t been anything wrong with him, his father was just scared that he’d inherit the staggering height of him. He had asked him about it once, why it was so bad to be so tall. His father looked like the giants in his stories, the towering warriors, the indomitable champions, the strongest of all men. The answer had been vague, aches and pains that ran the length of his body, the disproportions of his hands, his feet, his forehead, trying to fit in a world that wasn’t built for him. Maxence hadn’t truly understood it until he’d visited the homes of his friends, and all their chairs were the same size, and he could reach the top of the doorframes if he stood on his tiptoes.

Even here in Skyhold he had seen the way he ducked out of the tavern, this place wasn’t built with Qunari-sized people in mind. Sometimes he would have to lower his head to fit under the doorframes, but his height came from his mother’s parents, everything of him was proportioned perfectly, apparently. The worries his father had for him never found root in him, even if the world was awkward for a man just a few inches too tall.

Maxence rolls over, his back blessed by the rush of colder air, and flips onto his front kicking the sheets down to his waist. He wonders whether Matrin would come looking for him, there’s only a few spirit healers with the amount of knowledge needed to teach others; most of them had quickly been put to the sword or imprisoned for their usefulness. It hadn’t been a happy ending for most, but those who chose to aid were killed quicker than those who fought. There had been a fine line between dangerous mages and those who weren’t even capable of such things, once a templar had crossed the line to kill; it let a flood through to drown them all.

Hadn’t his father been the same?

It’s a thought that makes him pull the covers back up and over his shoulders. Maxence groans loudly in distress, regretting what he had said yesterday, why couldn’t he have just rolled over like he had done in the circle? Why did he have to start standing up for himself when he was an actual prisoner?

“Oh, lazy man, it’s your nameday and we have gifts.” Eir sings, letting the door swing open and smack against the wall. It shocks Maxence enough for him to sit bolt upright in bed, twisting awkwardly at the sight of the twins. He’d completely forgotten what day it was.

“It’s twelfth hour and you’re still in bed, this isn’t the Max we know.” Urd huffs, ignoring how the man is half naked and drops down to sit on his bed. A small box is thrown at him and a brightly coloured bottle sat on the small set of drawers he has to keep his things in. She offers him a grin, and he feels the weight of Eir sitting on the other side of him, picking at the ribbon upon the box. She had a habit of opening things that didn’t belong to her, even the things she had wrapped herself.

“You didn’t need to get-” Maxence covers his mouth as he speaks, fully aware that his morning breath would be foul and doesn’t want to breathe all over them.

“Nonsense, the man is named, the man is given life, and we celebrate with rum and these slightly poisonous chocolates.” Eir says, her voice low and booming, as if trying to rattle the nails from his bed. She laughs after a beat of silence, poking him in the shoulder with her knuckle. “Your favourite, unless you’ve given up on this sweet, sweet Rivaini beverage.” The coloured bottle is held aloft, and she kisses the belly of it wetly with a loud smack.

“We bought some whores and dancers too,” Urd grins, hitting his other shoulder with the back of her hand. Maxence turns to her with heat in his cheeks and widened eyes. Surely, they wouldn’t have. “Oh, don’t look at me like that, it’s a jest.” He breathes a sigh of relief, taking the small box, now sans ribbon, and opening the golden dusted chocolates. They’re bitter things, made with the darkest of chocolate and a wide collection sour fruit.

“Did you get anything from your mother? She usually sends those little edible petal things.” Eir picks one from the box, wincing at the taste but chewing readily. They had a spiced flavour once swallowed, and they went nice with milk or rum. Maxence lets Urd take one and close the box before any more are eaten; she blows ice across the top of it, grinning at the crunch of magic between her teeth. He stands with a stretch, yawning loudly and sighing as he starts picking through his small selection of robes.

“Not yet, I’ll save you some.” He says, remembering the question just asked.

“The yell-”

“The yellow ones, yes, I know.” Maxence snorts, throwing her a look of mock exasperation. She jabs him with the toe of her boot, and pinches Urd’s arm when she starts to laugh as well. “I could just have her send them more often.” He shrugs, pulling a tunic over his head and tightening the laces. He could also mention that he wants out of the Inquisition, she could pull strings from where she was, she had enough influence to have her son removed from prison. If not her then, would it be so awful to ask his father to do it?

“No, that ruins how special they are.” She folds her arms indignantly, tilting her nose up in mock nobility. “And if it weren’t for them, would we even be friends?” She sniffs, her lips pinching to stop the smile growing there.

“I daresay we’d hate each other.” Maxence laughs. He pulls a robe around his shoulders, threading each clasp through its other half, hearing the clink of gold sing out each time. They’d all known he was the son of nobles, it wasn’t that hard to see in tailored robes lined with fine detail and jewels. Some had resented him for this; coin in the circles bought freedoms that others couldn’t have, coin in the circles bought safety.

He combs his hair through when Eir holds up a looking glass, laughing when Urd grabs him by the shoulders and kisses his cheek with little grace. It’s a tradition they’ve held to since they’ve known him, and it always makes him feel just that bit better. It’s a gift for him to have after such tumultuous thoughts. Maxence sits back on the bed pointedly offering his cheek to Eir, laughing as Urd performs a lopsided curtsey as she steps away.

“Happy nameday, Max,” She grins, “but Matrin was moaning that you’ve slept long enough now, time to get back to work.”

“Spoil.” Eir huffs, leaning up to give him a kiss on the other cheek. “He _was_ whinging, we’ll see you in the tavern later?” She throws him a sympathetic look over Matrin’s mood, the old bugger could be sour at the best of times, but he waves her off. He offers them a hum of approval, the acceptance not quiet making it to his tongue, for fear of breaking a promise unsaid. Maxence might not be welcomed later once they knew, and he had no doubt that they would in time.

“Cursed be the man who doesn’t buy drinks on the day of his naming.” Eir calls out, clutching her chest dramatically and falling into her sister. She pushes her away with laughter letting the door slam behind them as they leave. Maxence feels the swell of loneliness almost devouring him; in a few hours they might hate him. He sits back down, pulling out the small box once more. Carefully he sets out his belongings, and presses his fingers into it, watching the false bottom fold; revealing the small Cousland family pendant hidden below. Made of silver, with inset emeralds, two entwined branches skilfully carved to hang from a delicate chain. It stands out with brilliance against his dark skin, and it is cold against his chest when he thrusts it beneath his tunic.

The necklace is unsightly against the gold and black of his robe, but it needn’t be on top. If the spymaster intends to reveal his heritage, then he would not take it cowering. Edlyn had been proud of him, Edlyn had stood up for what she believed in, Edlyn had been made tranquil for defending what she thought was true and right. Perhaps this was a foolhardy idea, but he would not fall back onto his knees with the first step he took. What could they do to him that had not already befallen thousands of mages before him? His father was the Hero of Ferelden, his father saved Thedas from a blight. Maxence could hold shame in his father’s actions, but he would not hold shame in his name; Maxence Cousland had saved lives, Maxence Cousland had done good in this world, and he wouldn’t allow someone else to take that from him under the promise of someone else’s missteps.

For a moment he allows his fingers to trace the necklace under his robes, feeling the pointed edges of the silver leaves. With it comes anxiety of something new, the feeling of stepping away unbound, finding pride in who he was. The Spymaster could go to the void for all he cared, being ashamed of his name only meant there was shame to be found there. Maxence had more important things to do; firstly, to apologise to Matrin for staying in bed for half of the day.

Varric had eventually let up and allowed them to leave; if only to eat some of his first meal platter for the way No One had started to devour it. He had offhandedly invited them to the next Firesday card game and congratulated No One on his new job. Varric hadn’t thought No One was the kind to peel vegetables in a tavern kitchen, there was something about him that sang of past riches. But that was something the dwarf knew about; Hawke’s family had gone from riches to paupers and to riches once more. Granted there were strange circumstances, but coin flowed like rivers, all you had to do was dip your fingers in every so often.

He had let the lovers go when he’d had enough of them mooning over each other. Varric had once thought Thom Rainier, when he was Blackwall, was akin to Prince Sebastian; but that look on his face, that budding lust, Sebastian hadn’t been like that in the entire time he had known him. He still didn’t believe Hawke had managed to wrangle him into bed, Marcus was often fanciful with his supposed partners. The Hero of Ferelden? Not likely, though he’d ask as soon as the fear passed and the Warden Commander returned from his travels. Thom and No One hadn’t left in the direction of their shared bedchamber; the blonde had requested something else of a meal, it was late for a first meal for second meal was already on the cusp of being served. Thom had gone, begrudgingly.

The pair had at least waited until they were in a more private area of corridor before pressing against each other. Thom had acted first, but he could see that No One was aching to do so and the man was restraining himself from such. Lips had met roughly, slightly lopsided, but had corrected themselves quickly enough with a grunt and a clash of teeth. Fingers had trembled as their coursed over the other’s clothing, pinching at buttons and laces and belts and buckles.

Footsteps had broken them apart, and Thom had prodded No One’s back to usher him to their bedchamber. Delay after delay, he had wanted the man in his bed this morning, and the thought had spiralled and knotted until it brought a pleasantly burning friction to his gut.

“I have a busy schedule, Thom, I can’t just be drawn into meetings of lust like this.” No One laughs, trying to grab the latch on the door behind him. His fingers fail, once, twice, and he gives up and returns to balling his fists in Thom’s coat. Would that they were in their room he’d have torn it off already, now it only hangs open, with his belt buckle clanking noisily whenever he moved.

“You’re a bloody liar.” He grunts, halting in their kisses just to whisper those words against him. No One almost cackles at the words, grabbing at the other man’s jaw and holding him still.

“I’m hoping to be a naked one.” He hisses, biting at Thom’s lower lip and kissing him fiercely. They had eaten at the tavern, and he tastes of ale and gravy, and No One moans at the foreign yet deliciously familiar tongue in his mouth. Thom kisses like the kind of man who knows how to use his tongue for delving deep between thighs, like the kind of man who’s spent a lot of time between a pair of spread legs tight in pleasure. The kind of man who makes No One wish he could have a cunt for the night just to bury Thom’s face in it.

“Hah,” He barks, pulling away just a fraction to push their foreheads together, and to tease him when No One reaches to kiss him again, “get in there.” He growls, and No One’s eyebrows raise just a fraction. He hears the latch click, and Thom’s arm around his waist is the only thing that keeps him from tumbling into the room and falling onto his arse. Though, sex on the floor, they were still young enough for that, surely.

No One spins them as they enter, using his weight to close the door behind him, and bringing the other man flush against him once more. It burns within him, being devoured like this; with open mouthed kisses biting down his neck and as far as the tunic would allow Thom to do so. Calloused palms push at the hem, creasing it under No One’s arms so that he might continue his journey. He doesn’t pull it off, rather his clenches it in his fist, drawing on it until it digs into his skin and stays some of the pleasure Thom is lathering him with. The iron ringlets scratch against him uncomfortably, but he’s never been averse to anything of a rougher time in bed.

A mouth bites at the skin around his nipple, laying marks whence they had faded previously. His tongue wets them, wide and dragging across the paler flesh, before teeth pinch at the pebbled nub. Thom huffs his breath out heavily, heat ghosting against No One’s skin, he throws his head back in pleasure forcing Thom closer with a gripping palm. How he adored this, a mouth on his chest, nose squashed against him for the desperation to bite on more.

He half wants to beg the man to repeat the action against the other, to build symmetry upon his chest. But lips and teeth and tongue trail lower, pinching at the slightness of his stomach, the ripple of his ribs. No One has to force himself to look down, so easy it would be to keep his head back and his back arched; but the sight of Thom lowering himself to his knees and biting at the hem of his breeches, it pulls a moan out of him that sounds disastrously close to euphoria.

Thom mouths at him through his breeches, teeth light through the fabric, the barest scratch of friction. Though No One’s eagerness grips at the knot in the cloth and tugs it loose so it might fall to his ankles. Those lips press against the curve of his sex, tongue curling around the shaft, wet, so, _so_ wet. Fingers find a gentle purchase to follow Thom’s mouth, stroking where his lips didn’t touch. His hand lays weight against No One’s thigh, keeping him steady, squeezing when his leg twitches and nudges into his side. No One tries to say something, but his throat is dry for open-mouthed gasping, and Thom’s mouth descends around his cock, engulfing him until his lips are flush against his fist.

The noise is choked from him, obscene enough to make himself blush, heat spreading through him like wildfire. Thom pulls back to suck on the head of his cock, tongue flat against him and then poking at the dampened tip. No One thrusts his hips at the feeling, a whimpered apologetic sound quick from his lungs, denied by Thom’s laughter. The kissing continues unperturbed, the lavishing continues, the obscene reverence continues. No One has to grab at his jaw and pull him away before he loses himself in his mouth. He grunts a question, to ask him to stand, and tastes sex on Thom’s tongue when they kiss again.

They stagger to the bed, No One steps from his breeches, leaving them by the door, and they both strip as they walk. A few steps, it isn’t enough, and Thom has to sit to kick off his boots with an impatient No One biting across his shoulders. There’s a curse as iron is spat out, clattering upon the chest beside the bed, and that gives Thom the few seconds he needs to strip down to nothing and climb between No One’s thighs.

“You going to fuck me, Thom Rainier?” He whispers, almost taunting him and shuffling down the bed to press their hips closer together. It leaves his head at an awkward angle, but he’d bear it to have Thom’s cock in him. Just the thought makes his toes curl with delight. Hands coil around his thighs, fingers squeezing, mindful of the scars, and travel far enough that Thom hitches the man higher and pulls him further down the bed. No One yelps at the action, his back now creased and Thom’s mouth kissing between his thighs. The idea of being thrown around so lightly, he can feel the knuckles of his feet protest at how he tightens them.

“You’re clean?” He asks, biting closer to the curve of his arse. For a moment No One’s mind goes blank, the answer is easy, of course he is; but his lips can’t cooperate when the only lips he can think of at this moment are an inch or two away from his arsehole. No One nods almost dumbly, yelping when Thom pulls at him again. The man’s back is straight, and it’s far more comfortable for Thom now, though No One’s shoulders bear all of his own weight. It forces him to look up at his own sex, Thom’s arms curled around his waist to keep him steady, wisps of long black hair poking out from beyond his thighs.

Lips at first, a test of a kiss, and No One feels himself tensing with anticipation. Then a tongue, heavy with saliva, he feels Thom gather spit in his mouth to make it wetter, and it feels filthy enough that No One has to clutch at sheets to ground himself. A thumb presses against him, only inside to the first knuckle, and then is removed in favour of his tongue. Inside, Thom’s tongue is _inside_. His toes curl tighter, not particularly attractive suspended in the air as they are, but he feels pre-come drip onto his chest. It brings an unpleasant idea of having mess all over himself, the pearl necklace he so desired from Thom would be of his own making.

“This,” He gasps, trying to steady his voice as Thom’s tongue thrusts slowly and deeply inside of him, “this wasn’t the pearl, _fuck_ , the pearl necklace I had in mind.” No One moans at the laughter against him, puffs of breathless air relentless against his arse. Thom’s tongue pulls from him, kisses of apology against the curve of his cheeks and the insides of his thighs. “Let me on my knees, I need to.” He reaches for whatever part of Thom he can grab to try and convey his message, squeezing in desperation, almost casting a whimper as Thom ignores him.

The arms about his waist tighten, and the hairs of them prickles against the head of his cock. Thom’s tongue lavishes inside of him, curling inside; No One thinks, he can’t name what the man is doing, only how it fans the flames of ignited arousal within him. His bitten nails dig into Thom’s thighs, a moan wrenched from him when he feels teeth against his arsehole. The knuckles of his hands protest at the tightness, and he can feel Thom thighs twitching to remove themselves from the offense. He moans as the pressure is taken from his shoulders, and Thom shuffles back wiping his mouth and pushing at the muscles of his own thighs to rid them of the sting of pain.

No One is quick when he’s able to move into a different position, turning onto his front and prostrating himself in front of Thom. He palms his cock as the bed shifts behind him, hands light against the swell of his arse. The thought of being spanked crosses his mind, but he’s never been much into that.

“The necklace-” Thom starts, as breathless as No One.

“Another time, Thom, I need your tongue in my arse.” He bites into the pillow when a wave of embarrassment washes over him at Thom’s laughter. But the laughter disappears, replaced by a mouth with far too much experience, and an eagerness represented by warm breath and a heated tongue. It muffles his groans when Thom is inside of him again, thrusting with that tasting wetness. He would pull back when No One’s grunts came too loud, and he would bite at the swell of his arse cheeks, sucking patterns into those and feeling a throb of arousal in himself at the whimpers that slip from him. But then the tongue returns to the cavern it wishes to become more familiar with.

No One’s hand works quickly over his own cock, there’s little chance he’ll last long enough to get to anything larger within him. The sound of his pleasure fills his ears, their act unmistakable to eavesdroppers, but there’s little dignity to be had with a man’s face pressed between spread cheeks and a bloom of bruises over his arse. His orgasm is upon him in shaking thighs and a silent yell through gritted teeth. Aching shoulders and an unpleasant straining sensation in the arch of his back sings out when he recollects himself; unable to do little more than lie flat and offer Thom a pair of half-hidden raised brows as the man lies next to him.

The promise of the best arse-eating had been from No One to Thom, but he feels as if he’d never be able to complete it. How could he, when the latter had such skill with his tongue that he had rendered him almost paralysed with the sensation of it. He lands a hand on Thom’s chest, patting the heavy breaths he takes.

“Touch yourself.” He croaks, voice aching and throat dry. “Grab your cock, Thom, mon chéri, take yourself.” He manages a grunt as he shifts onto his side, his stomach is damp with his own mess, and he’d wince at the feeling of it if he weren’t staring at Thom’s reddened cock surrounded by his thick fingers. No One spares a glance at his face and finds that Thom is staring at him with half-lidded eyes, darkened with lust and flushed with desire. A moan slips from within, and he pushes himself closer.

Thom leans into him, mixing their heavy breaths and grunts. No One whispers endearments into his ear, kissing his cheek with adoration, a hand over his chest to feel the heavy thudding of his heart beneath. The man’s elbow digs into his stomach each time he strokes himself, it’s a dull jab that No One endures easily, watching how Thom’s lips fall open in pleasure. He turns to kiss No One, lazily and with little skill. More of something to keep them connected than anything else, but it adds so much more to his pleasure. No One’s hand trails from his heart over the curve of his shoulder and down to his fist. Longer fingers entwine with Thom’s adding pressure to his cock, a grin upon his mouth when his hips begin to roll into their combined hands.

No One bites into Thom’s mouth kissing him harder as he falls from his own afterglow. He moves their fists faster, drinking the other man’s grunts and moans, grinning as Thom’s breath is drawn quickly and heat spreads across their fingertips. It’s a beautiful sight, watching his muscles tense and release themselves, to relax into that divine pleasure. A moment of staring, and Thom turns his head to kiss him again. No One’s fingers come to rest on the side of his bearded jaw, thumb stroking at slightly swollen lips. Thom thinks the man looks as if he wants to speak, but the words don’t fall from his lips. Only a soft smile, a sigh, and a shake of the head.

He rolls onto his back and pulls Thom into his side, kicking up the sheets and draping them over both of their bodies. It would be a grand idea to slip out of bed to grab a cloth to wash with, but the idea of simply moving seems too foul. Thom bites his lip in mirth at the sight of bruises blossoming over No One’s chest, painfully prodding one, and then smoothing down the darkened hairs that grow over them. It was a miracle he hadn’t had any come loose in his mouth at the time. No One’s hand pulls through his hair carefully, mindful not to catch any knots.

“Earlier, do you really have a girl’s name?” Thom asks, finding his mind drifting him to a sea of sleep. No One’s gentle humming and tender breaths doesn’t do much to aid him in staying awake. It’s a long time since he’s wanted to fall asleep in the middle of the day, it’s a longer time since he’s had the chance to do so with a lover.

“Not in Orlais.” He whispers, offering a short huff of laughter and a slight shrug, careful not to jar the man upon his chest. Thom frowns, if only slightly, and tries to think of the names of home that were more masculine in Orlais. Marie was a woman’s name, one often used in Orlais for both men and women. He glances up at No One; the man doesn’t look like a Marie. “Don’t think too much on it, Thom.” He adds, shrugging the sheets up higher over the other man’s shoulders. No One’s fingers drag through his hair and ghost over the curl of his shoulder, a trail of gooseflesh left in his wake.

“I’m curious, and I meant what I said earlier; No One, it’s not you.” He pushes himself up to rest on an elbow; the blanket slips from his shoulder, though No One picks it up to rest upon him once more. It seems to act as more of a delay to his words than an actual attempt at comfort, but Thom wasn’t going to say as such.

“Perhaps it’s not, but it’s safer than being who I am.” No One glances away for a second, eyes flicking to something far off before he can look back.

“And in here?” Thom whispers, as if his words might shatter the other man. It captures No One’s attention enough for the man to look almost frightened to answer, it was a question that was far more than the sum of its parts. Would that it was so easy; to divulge everything about himself, to tell Thom his name in the face of the fear that grips him. But with his name came so much more, so much more that he wasn’t ready to say.

“In here I’m a man happy, with eight coppers and someone who can eat me out like the best of them, if not _the_ best.” No One says, trying to pull a laugh from the other man. There’s little reason for him to bother, Thom can read him better than most, and he’s not the first to figure out he hides behind poorly placed humour. “In here there’s time to be had, and I need that, Thom, I need that time.” His words are soft, the kind he’s inclined to use when he’s saying something that has the beginnings of a curdle to his gut.

“I’ve that to give,” Thom says, brows twitching upwards for a second, “Marie.” No One’s laughter stalls for a second, then it barks from his chest in relieved glee. Thom finds himself pulled into a chuckle, grinning as he buries himself back into No One’s side.

“My name’s not Marie.” He says, the laughter renewing in his chest.

“Claude?”

“No.”

“Lilian?”

“I’m not answering anymore.” No One tugs on the tip of Thom’s ear, grinning at him as he shuffles lower on the bed, bringing their lips together.

“Of course, _Lilian_.” Thom laughs, pinching him under the sheets. He prods and tickles with his fingers, bringing No One to childish giggles and a pathetic slap fight. Curses fall from lips and knees knock together; and they both forget that they’re bedded in a fortress in the middle of a war, they forget the past of who they are, and they taste into each other’s mouths.

It’s half a night that Thom grins the word Lilian to the other man, spread out on one half of the bed with an open book in hand, whilst he shines his boots and cleans them of mud. A sheet is tossed over No One’s legs when a platter is brought up to them on Thom’s request. Peaches, and No One’s eyes alight when he plucks the slices and bites down on the sweet fruit. It’s domestic, romantic even, something warm finds a home in No One’s chest, He doesn’t say anything even if he had read the same page several times over, and still hadn’t figured out exactly what he was reading about.

Tomorrow was Florent’s nameday. Goddard can remember spending it in bed with the man in his youth. Before Aaric had found them together, he hadn’t any issue with letting them be friends; he claimed they later took advantage of him to give into Florent’s perversions. Florent had paid for a room in town, somewhere expensive, somewhere private, somewhere used for this exact kind of thing. They’d spent the day crawling from tavern to tavern, red faced and drunk. A few of Goddard’s friends had been with them, Cade, Alger, Perce, and Luther; they’d been thrilled at the idea of getting plastered in the towns nearby. They’d all piled into the inn, three double rooms, and Florent had grinned when he pushed the two beds together. He had been so nervous the others would hear, but if they had, nobody had said anything the next day.

The feeling of anxiety had been heavy in his mind on that day; it was Florent’s nameday, and Goddard felt as if he had to perform to something of an exceptional standard in the bedroom. It hadn’t been as such, and Florent had devoured him for hours. He was sore in more ways than just the head, but it was more pleasant than any hangover he’d had before. But that was another life, a life that had been wrongfully stolen from him, but had led him to one he could not regret. Though he could regret how he had lost his first chance at love.

Florent was a generous man, he laughed boldly and grinned through jagged teeth. He had a length of black hair; Goddard had always found that attractive, each one of his lovers had it. Perhaps it reminded him of a freedom his family never had, his father was bald and made sure that his mother’s hair never reached her shoulders. The reason why was beyond both of them, but a head full of curls didn’t lend to the intimidating aura that Aaric so desperately clung too.

Florent’s hair was usually parted and held in a bun to keep it from his face; Telithatleira’s was braided elegantly with bits of bone and carved stone entwined; Yetta wore hers like a noble woman, tied to keep it above the shoulders, but at night she would let it down and Goddard would brush it so softly. His own hair was curly once it got to a certain length, more of a tousled bush than the sleekness of Yetta’s hair. All his children had inherited those untameable curls. He had once heard it was obvious to tell a Trevelyan; heavy jaws, big ears, crooked teeth, a hooked nose, and lengths of dark curling hair.

Goddard stares absentmindedly into the wine he’s holding. He knows it’s a rich blend, but he can’t bring himself to drink any. Instead his thoughts swirl once more with the date, and whether or not it would be appropriate to do something for the Baroulxs. Some kind of gift; an apology to the life his father had stolen. Or whether that would be uncouth, sadistic almost, to send gifts on the nameday of a man once murdered. He owed Florent something, he owed Florent more than he could ever give. Would that he could give him his life back, to restore what was stolen.

“Dee, are you listening?” Yetta asks, her hand gently resting upon his knee. It brings him from his thoughts with a deep inhale, setting his wine down lest he spill it. Her hair is held in tight braids that tie to make a bun atop her head, adorned with a crown of slim golden chains holding jewels that shine in afternoon light. They match the earrings that hang from weighted lobes, and the necklace that rests upon her chest offers something to the muted colours of her dress.

They had both been measured for a new outfit, black fabrics of subtle differences, a dark lace overlay, nothing of a fainter colour upon them save for a small symbol of Andraste that they might wear about their neck. They would spend Wakefield’s nameday next month grieving, and they would honour him. Goddard wonders if Maxime would be doing the same for Florent, he wonders if he should. Though, the outfit hadn’t yet been made, perhaps being solemn or lighting a candle for him in the chantry might make him feel less grave.

Though, he reminded himself, there were several namedays before that, many of which would be spent with dark undertones. Una, Wakefield’s widow, his brother Fulton, those would be solemn days. But his nephew-by-law Jerren, and his granddaughter Gylda, they would be spent in celebration, though not in Skyhold. Gylda was at the behest of her pregnancy back at the Trevelyan estates in Ostwick, and he assumed that Jerren was there as well. He makes a note to ask Yetta to get them something because he was awful at buying gifts, he always had been.

“Pardon, no, my apologies.” He clears his throat and readjusts how he sits, scratching at his jaw and crossing his legs. His joints protest at the movement, having settled from being sat for so long. The meal in front of him had mostly gone cold, but he had done naught but pick at it before. Today had been tiresome, tomorrow would be more so.

“Twyla arrived at Amaranthine yesterday, she and the children are going to spend the day there to look at some of the sights. Apparently Lilybeth is enamoured by the jewellers there, which Twyla assures me has nothing to do with the young man who is apprenticing there.” She has the slightest smile on her face, a memory of young love, but she can see how Goddard’s eyes seem to glaze over; his mind was elsewhere no matter her protests.  “What’s the matter?”

“It’s Florent’s nameday tomorrow.” He says it without any indication that he’d listened to Lilybeth’s newfound crush, and it’s spoken monotone as if he meant to keep the emotion out for fear of his own sorrow. Goddard glances up when he feels the settee beside him dip with the weight of his wife, and she clasps his hand in her own. He inhales deeply once more, as if thinking made him forget to breathe, as if every ounce of him needed to concentrate on what he could remember.

Her husband had affections for men. It was something she had known since she had been promised to him as a child; nine years old with a nine year wait to marry a man who wouldn’t even love her. How wrong she had been. Goddard had so much love to give, he poured it into his friends and family, almost every moment she had been with him she had felt adored. Yetta had asked him about Florent, almost vigorously so, if only because of how her sisters had poisoned her mind against him. But he had never once claimed that Yetta would be second, and he had rarely spoke of him over the years. Florent was a memory of an old tutor, an old friend, an old lover. Neither of them could have known it would come back as a grisly tale of her father-by-law’s vile prejudices.

Jealousy was not something she had known inside of herself; the youngest of eight girls knowing that she would marry an influential man only second to her own family, always having had enough coin for whatever she wanted, and knowing whatever her sisters didn’t want any more always came down the line eventually. Of course, also knowing she had little chance of becoming Teryna when her younger brother was born helped with things. She was the second youngest of nine, and the least important. Yetta had all the trimmings of a noble life and few of the trappings.

Her eldest sister, Rowena, had once been betrothed to Goddard. She had demanded their father to break it off when she heard of his dalliances with an Orlesian man, she wouldn’t have those rumours circulating her family. As with all other things Goddard had been passed down from sister to sister; from Rowena to Corliss to Audrey to Samantha to Edwina to Linette to Myra and finally to Yetta. Each of them followed in Rowena’s stead, yearning for their eldest sister’s approval, and Yetta hadn’t the choice to refuse. Though it had worked out rather well, and Goddard was lovely, and Rowena had been bitterly jealous in the end. She had married a man who was abundantly boring, though Edwina had told her that their eldest sister had many lovers to take his place whence she grew tired of him.

“There’s something that Lizette said that has simply been clawing at my mind, after Florent had supposedly left, Aaric wasn’t injured.” Goddard trails off, a loose shrug and a squeeze of her hand. Florent was a strong warrior, quick with finesse and skill, a foe one wouldn’t want to meet on the battlefield. Far better than his father by all accounts, to have lost against him sings of falsehoods and injustice. Florent would have fought with honour, his title bound him by that, but Aaric would be held to no such restraints.

“She may have lied to preserve his memory.” Yetta says it with a painted brow raised, she hadn’t been there, she didn’t know. She knew Lizette loved her father, and she knew Lizette lied often enough that Yetta stopped counting when she did so. Goddard’s eyes open just a fraction more, as if she had lifted a veil from his memory.

“Maker, what I wouldn’t give to be able to throttle him.” He whispers, biting his tongue in anger, it hadn’t been a fair fight at all. They had several guardsmen upon the estate, and it wouldn’t be so out of hand to believe his father had told them to attack Florent in his stead. No warrior would admit to such cowardice. It should have been the other way around; there was no fairness in letting a man like Aaric live to old age and having Florent die so young at his hands.

“We’ll find out the truth, Dee, and whatever happens, I know you’ll do the best you can to right this wrong.” She sends him a smile, the kind she used on their children when they got upset; a loving smile, one full of knowing. Finding out the truth about Florent was a waiting game, and it would all come out at one point, by the Maker’s promise it will. “I do have some good news for you, now you’re listening.” She pats his hand lightly, and he offers a breathless chuckle at her reprimand.

“Apologies.” Goddard bows his head slightly, reaching for both of their wineglasses, one by one for the cursed cast, and clinks them together only slightly. He turns his body so he’s entirely facing her, feeling his heart beat just a bit faster when she does the same. Forty-three years of marriage and still he adored her like no other.

“The Warden Commander was seen at a tavern yesterday, Leliana received information by crow this morning.” She takes a sip of her wine, careful not to leave a stain of her lips on the rim, and reaches to take Goddard’s hand once more. “A man of Lei’s description was with them, though her spy only mentioned six Wardens, including Teryn Cousland.” She hadn’t known what that meant, _only six_ , but those were the of the spymaster, and she chose them carefully, which meant she wanted her to repeat them as such to Goddard.

“And this means?” Goddard’s brows pinch together, he didn’t know anything of the Wardens, and knowing where Lei was last night didn’t mean he was alive this morning.

“Leliana believes they’ve completed the Joining, whatever trials they endured, Lei has stood victorious over them.” Yetta watches the tightness fall from Goddard’s shoulders; she can’t feel the same relief as he does, but she feels something of it. She had promised to accept Lei as he son, and she wouldn’t go back on her word knowing the boy isn’t on his death march any longer.

“Thank the Maker.” He sighs. The threat of the Joining lost allows him to feel less stressed over his health, but Andrastopher was still Qunari, and he still had him in his grasp. There was nothing to say the man wouldn’t bind him and throw him on a ship to Par Vollen as soon as they reached the Amaranthine docks. Where Twyla is currently. The thought hits him softly, a gentle reminder at the back of his mind; the urgency that Leliana had supposedly acted with. If Andrastopher was a threat, then the man had access to two of his children, and Leliana hadn’t thought to tell him? “Though it’s a bit after the fact, isn’t it?” He adds, feeling his mood beginning to sour.

“What do you mean?”

“I didn’t choose Leliana as my spymaster, Cassandra did, before I even became Inquisitor.” Goddard says it quieter, leaning closer to his wife, trying to keep their conversation as private as he could. There was nobody else in the room, but Leliana had no boundaries. “She’s keeping secrets from me, and, I believe she’s doing it more so since I’ve told her I shan’t support her attempt at becoming Divine.”

“Do you trust her?” It’s a frightening question to ask; trust is something that nobles must use carefully, one wrong step and everything could crumble. Yetta squeezes her husband’s hand once more, feeling dread crawling into her lungs as he shakes his head to deny her the peace she sought.

“No,” He says, “no I do not.” The words seem to take root in his gut, wrapping his insides and curdling his blood. Leliana used to be Hand of the Divine; a title she would not keep under Vivienne’s ascension. Perhaps this is what caused her to act in such a way. The tides may be turning, and she may see that Goddard is swept away with them.

He didn’t know whether it was wise to have her removed, to hire someone else in her place. But he hadn’t chosen any of them. Commander Cullen, who had what experience in war? Had he not always played second fiddle to mad men and tyrants? Acting only when it was too late, when the damage had been done and the world was worse for it? And what did that make Goddard? Lady Josephine had her merits, but she spun webs of wit and praise around Thedas, and Goddard had little say in what was sent and what was not; she too was held in place by Leliana. Was he anything more than a figurehead to take the fall should things go badly?

The thought of losing this war, it hadn’t crossed his mind before. But Thedas would blame no man but him, and Leliana would take them and return to the shadows with no care for the man she had thrown from the wagon. He stands with a heavy exhale, taking his wine to the balcony outside his chambers. Goddard had always thought himself to be one of the people, he fought beside them, he watched them die beside him, he loved and lost and longed like any other man. He might think himself to be like every other man in Thedas, but no man in Thedas thought they were like him.

Yetta worries at her necklace as she watches her husband stand upon the mountain’s edge. Had she been a fool to trust Leliana with documents of their family? Had the spymaster used her confusion of Lizette to obtain documents that would lead to Goddard’s downfall? She gently worries her lip behind her wineglass, taking a sip before setting it down once more.

Trust was not an extended arm, but a bridge to be crossed together. Harmony would grant them a meeting in the centre, but there was something so open, so undefended, about standing alone on something that had no walls nor ceilings. More so to be standing on the precipice, without a step further to take. Yetta wonders if he would be angry with her, for such a misstep would be fatal. But, at this risk, was it not better to expose the poison that was his sister than to allow her to embitter his achievements. For a moment she feels wholly alone, trapped as if she were prisoner; Goddard may be right behind her, but his loyalties were forced to remain with the entirety Thedas, whilst her priorities were their children.

She catches her husband’s eye as he glances back to her. A look is shared between them, and they know, more than anything, that everything may change soon; and far too quickly at that.


	48. Something it Is

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to apologise for how late this chapter is, I've been busy lately with good things, but I should be getting back on track with my writing.

No One had awoken on the fifth hour, standing shirtless in the centre of the room and simply doing nothing. Thom had cupped his jaw tenderly, and it had been a sight to come around to. A deep inhale and a quick glance around to recognise his surroundings, and Thom had led him back into bed. It hadn’t been as violent as the last, but it had been just as confusing. He had awoken in a bed that wasn’t his, a bed that wasn’t Thom’s, and for a moment he had feared the whole thing had been a dream and he hadn’t done anything of the last several decades. It should have been an overwhelming sensation of joy of being able to fix his mistakes, to be able to right all of his wrongs, yet all he could think was that Thom was gone.

The ceilings had been high domes with golden arches, symbols of Andraste between each rib, and a chandelier to hang from the centre to bring it to life with fire. Ironic, he thought. No One had pulled the fine silk nightgown from his frame, and saw those twisted scars upon his thigh, and the fading bruises that smattered his chest. A mirrored wall brought him to happiness at the sight of him, he was still old, his hair blonde, and his body was ruin with scars and mottled discolorations. No One had exclaimed his delight with a yell; an odd feeling at the thought of being glad of the last few decades, something that he had never believed he would feel. He could not count the amount of times he had wished for such a chance, and even though he knew this was not one, it was still unusual to know he would have passed on the opportunity to change his life.

There was one door to the room, but there was no latch, and when he got closer he realised that it was painted on the wall, alit with sconces either side. No One scratched at the wall with a jagged nail, his face pinching when he realised the paint was still wet. The windows had been similar, and he had simply sat on the bed and waited. A bottle had been broken on one side, and he held it firmly in his hand, waiting for someone to come in; how ever they would. He felt oddly at ease, with or without the makeshift weapon, as if this was home. Yet he couldn’t shake the feeling that something was lurking. Whether it was intent on hurting him was something different; though he remembered the Revenant, and those Dalish corpses, and those two elves whose words had echoed within him. It brought a shudder to his spine, and within a blink Thom had been there, and he had returned to his proper home.

It was a welcomed reprieve from the horrors he was used to, but there was no reason he could figure out to explain why such a thing had happened. For a moment he thought of possession, if the Revenant had finally gotten to him and had invaded his mind. Perhaps those two elves had, perhaps even now he wasn’t himself. But Thom had kissed him gently, both with foul breath from a night of rest, and had ushered him back to sleep. It had taken away all his worries, knowing that the man was there with him no matter what. No One had curled around him, his chest lining Thom’s back, and had drawn gentle pictures across his torso.

Thom had slept another hour, dozing lightly as No One thought over his dreams, over the small hairs the curled with passion at the nape of Thom’s neck. He wouldn’t admit it, but he spent that time simply staring at the other man, memorising everything that made him his own person. He’d slipped off to find a maid to have water brought up to fill the tub, then had crawled under the covers and tried to rid his body of the aches that riddled him. A curtsey from the maids and No One had pulled a sleeping Thom into the bathing chamber and stripped them both. They’d mumbled through a conversation about their days as soldiers, and how a tub like this was a luxury to a travelling warrior. Though neither had been as such in some time. It was comforting to know that this, Skyhold, this was their home. They might share it with hundreds of others, but this little domain was theirs, or, it belonged to Thom and No One was a welcomed guest.

No One had clambered in first, his legs spread and his fingers patting the top of the water so that Thom might climb in in front of him. The action had made the other man laugh, something of a rumbling chuckle as he sat down in front. No One had pressed a fleeting kiss to the swell of his arse, and had wrapped his arms around the man to bring him flush against his chest. They kicked absently at the heating runes in the water, wiggling until they managed to get comfortable in such a small tub.

The bathing is slow, gentle hands over weatherworn skin. No One hums something absentmindedly as his fingers dig into Thom’s shoulders, washing them with soap and massaging out the anxiety in his muscles. The other man does nothing but moan every so often at the feeling, sighing as the relaxation begins to claw at him, and his fatigue returns in waves of pleasure.

“Where’d you sleep then? When you were a captain.” No One asks, fingers pulling through Thom’s hair to rid it of tangles. He takes water from the bath in a jug to rinse through the knots, careful not to tug too hard. The words pull Thom from his fatigue, and he shifts in the water barely able to contain the stretch he wants to pull himself into.

“Wherever would have me.” He yawns, dragging soap over the length of No One’s legs, massaging the swell of muscle there. The man had complained of a lingering soreness that seemed to claw at his bones, another nightmare hadn’t done much to help him in the matter. But Thom had only watched him rise from the bed and remove his tunic, then, nothing. It had been unsettling, how the man seemed so otherworldly as he dreamt, but at least he hadn’t hurt himself this time.

“Hah. You had your own chamber though, as fancy as this?” He inclines his head backwards to gesture to the larger room and not the small bathing chamber they currently sat in. Neither of them could say they hadn’t taken a bed for the night because of the lover within. Even now No One was only a guest in Thom’s bed, most nights he simply sat up on the sofa, pretending to sleep away the hours like a normal person. It was only when he was invited, whether with intimate intentions or not, that he fell asleep in Thom’s bed, in his arms. The idea of pushing too far, too hard, and losing everything he had here, it brewed anxiety within him.

“Wouldn’t say so, reckon this is a duke’s bedchamber.” Thom shrugs. They had given it to him before they had found out who he was, and they hadn’t ever taken it from him. Returning to these sheets after his trial had been an odd thing, and he had slept upon the settee for the first few nights. It had taken time for him to get used to the thing again, to feel guiltless for his actions, it hadn’t come entirely, but at least he managed to conquer the bed. The stable was a usual haunt for him, it was a lot cooler at night should it get too hot, and a little part of him found joy in sleeping rough.

No One feels his fingers tremble for a moment as he grabs for the soap, and he picks at the small clump with jagged nails before scrubbing it into Thom’s scalp. He hadn’t any paint upon his fingers. It would be easy enough to leave the conversation there, to let it fade away, to have it lathered and washed and thrown out the window. But what other opportunity might he have, such an open-ended word like this might never come again. A duke’s bedroom, was it so unfortunately coincidental that it housed the son of one? Thom doesn’t seem put out by No One’s stalling lungs. He mumbles something about the soap, and grabs for it to wash his other leg.

“Hand it to me and it might be.” No One says eventually, pressing his lips to the curve of Thom’s shoulder. The man between his legs turns with a raised brow, confused as to his words; too much time had passed to warrant a response. No One clears his throat for the nervous swelling that it brings to him. “My father’s a Duke, though he’s still alive so wait a while, that’s not me wishing him dead either.” He whispers the words, afraid to shatter everything he’s built with each secret that passes his lips.

Thom is marginally surprised, he knew No One was a nobleman, but as the son of a Duke it adds unspoken calamity to his fears. The other man used to be at the top of the ladder, he was the highest of the upper class save for royalty. The scandal of having a bastard daughter, the scandal of being a chevalier deserter; they only got worse for the farther he could fall. In Orlais, it’d be a blessing if he didn’t pull others down with him.  The ladders of bone he once spoke of, it all begin to make more sense. No One had fallen from them and seen the lives of everyone struggling to the top on the way down. It hadn’t been a quick fall either, no, he can imagine it had been painful, humiliating, grievous; something that shouldn’t be suffered by most, and definitely not a man like him.

No One had once lived the life of a man who had more coin than sense; who enjoyed the fripperies that no normal person could justifiably afford. Now he sat in a tub built for one, cramped but no less thrilled with the events. It reminds him of Fairbanks, who had no desire to be a nobleman any longer despite what some said of him. A gilded cage, but a cage nonetheless. He wondered how many others wished to be free from such fancy confines, and he wondered how many would crawl desperately into those cages just for a chance. Nobody truly wants what they have, he thinks.

Thom had always imagined rooms full of coin as a youth, to be noble with all those riches and to be able to do whatever he wanted. But when he saw people like this, it made him wonder whether those titles were worth the coin. Even the Champion of Kirkwall had complained about being noble. Granted he had been rather drunk, and lonely for being so far away from his lover; the bard singing songs of Marcus’ achievements hadn’t helped. He admitted he could have had it far worse, but he’d always wanted to go back to before the blight, when he was a farmer’s son and each day was hard work with a hot meal waiting at the end. Void he’d even preferred working for the Red Iron to meeting other nobles, he’d snuck out of far too many soirees to slip into Meeran’s bed.

No One doesn’t seem to be able to say anything else, instead he focuses on Thom’s hair, concentrating on the strands that bend to his fingers’ will. He wonders whether it was too much to say, nobility implied anything from a lowly Lord to a member of the royal family, but there was far few of the latter. Thom might not find interest in someone of such a high standard, it might hit far too close to home and his past. Perhaps he might have ruined everything with just a few words; he was hardly the son of a Duke any longer, perhaps biologically, but the title is worth nothing. There wasn’t much to gain from telling him, but he had so much to lose.

“What about you?” Thom asks, “Did you have anything like this?” He turns back to facing the wall in front of him, tilting his head so that No One’s fingers found purchase properly in his hair once more. It was easier to pretend that what No One told him didn’t have a huge impact on him, to treat his past as something entirely normal. It’s what he had wanted for himself. To speak of his sister and the grand tourney and fighting with sticks without fear of someone asking why Blackwall had done such a thing. He doesn’t know whether No One wants him to ask questions about what he said, but he wouldn’t know where to start at any rate.

What was he supposed to ask? To question whether No One was a good Lord; he had already told him he wasn’t. He had admitted to being a terror of a child, a kind brother, but a horror to his nannies and servants. He’d abandoned the Chevaliers as soon as he’d done something wrong, and that had been on the evening of his graduation. No One had been on the run ever since. He’d probably been a pauper longer than he’d been a lord. Or perhaps his questions should be shallower, how much coin do you have? The acres in your estates? How many servants did you have and how easily did you replace your silverware? None of it mattered anymore.

“At home I had more, but chevaliers share quarters, two to a room, I told you about Emile?” No One’s voice is gentle, brimming with anxiety, but relaxing more with every second. “Reckon he was sick of me in the end.” He offers a huff of laughter; Emile was a good man, and there’s hope in No One that he’s well to this day.

“Probably tired of all the books you left all over the room.” Thom pinches the skin on No One’s thigh and snorts at his own jest.

“Only for you, Thom. One of us has to be the brains of this…” No One’s laughter fades at the thought of mentioning them as something more serious. He had made jests of them courting, marrying in the summer, but his feelings had blossomed beyond jokes and laughter. What he felt for the other man rooted deeper than he had yet admitted to, but he had never been so anxious to admit that it is something it is. “This, _us_.” Thom laughs at him, a bellowing shout that shakes his gut. “Is it not so obvious that I’m rather fond of you, Thom Rainier?” No One chuckles from behind. His hands curl around Thom’s torso, face buried in the side of his neck to hide his flushed cheeks. He hopes Thom can’t feel the heavy thud of his heart upon his back. It wouldn’t be so awful if he could.

“That fondness is shared, beyond what I can describe.” Thom says, twisting to one side to kiss him. No One shoves him away playfully and turns him so he might rinse out the other man’s hair. He inhales deeply of the smell of peaches and soldier’s soap, sinking lower into the water just to sit closer to the other man. Odd to think he found such affection here, he’d never thought to have such kindness given to him let alone feelings of adoration. No One kisses Thom’s shoulders once more, lips tasting the marks he had left days ago.

“You’re a good man, Thom.” No One sighs, letting the jug fill slowly once more to rinse out his hair again.

“As are you, Your Grace.” Thom snorts, jumping as nails pinch at the skin on his waist. He laughs when fingers tickle at his skin, both ignoring how the water rises over the edges of the tub and cracks against the floor below. Thom manages to turn around even with No One’s grip on his waist, fighting away the hands that attempt to pinch him. They end up on opposite sides of the tub, breathing hard with their legs entangled in such a cramped space. Their laughter echoes out through the bathing chamber, and Thom easily returns to washing No One’s legs with the soap without cause for complaint.

He would have to think about the man’s heritage, and whether it would change things. It certainly made things more difficult in the way of getting back on his feet and out from under the crimes that plagued him. But Thom doesn’t mind, not personally, not for his own selfish reasons. No One was still the same man, son of a duke or not, it didn’t make that much difference to how they were together.

Lei finds himself mentally fiddling with the Las’dirthen, trying to draw the face of that shadowy figure he once knew. Art was not something he was well acquainted with, and it was naught more than scribbling shapes of something that looked vaguely like a face. He knew what the man, the Mirtha’ghila a Falon’din, looked like, but his fingers did not. Those yellow eyes in a sea of black, pale skin carved and cut up like the day of Andruil’s great feast. His brother hadn’t the same features, they had the same face, but the Mirtha’ghila’s was torn up and damaged under the vallaslin of Falon’din.

It was old vallaslin, the designs had been passed from clan to clan and he had heard of them arguing over which was one was true to their gods. But the Mirtha’ghila’s was intricate, faded green vines branching out over his face, threading back beyond his ears and below that high collar he had always worn. Both of the twins had asked over Lei’s own blank face, he had been young of course, but alone out here meant he could survive, which meant he had merits as a hunter and would be considered an adult of the Dalish. They hadn’t seemed bothered that his ears weren’t pointed, they knew him as Dalish regardless. Many a time Lei had thought about getting vallaslin, not from his own clan but perhaps a travelling Keeper; his grandfather had been such a thing. Though sometimes it was easier to blend into a crowd as a human; and it wasn’t as if his birth-clan would appreciate him decorating himself as such.

His grandfather, a man who his mother had often spoken about, was a Dalish who helped all elves who were lost. Whether they were city elves seeking the Dalish, or hunters who had strayed too far. He had even offered his kindness to those who weren’t elven; his name of Gara’vir even told others that he was a guidance to safer places. Though he is where his mother had lain her faults, why she had fallen in love with a shemlen man. Gara’vir had been too kind to stay with clan Mi’Durgen for too long, and he had left his mother at a young age, but often he visited, and Lei had always looked forward to those times

He uses his thumb to smudge a few lines into something less obvious, trying to catch the shape of his jaw but failing. It was hardly worth it to keep working on it, but it was something that he needed to do. Lei didn’t know why he felt so compelled, but he couldn’t bring himself to destroy the little scrap of vellum. There was something in this book, something he couldn’t quite place. Lei had no idea whether this man, the one he had met several years ago was still a threat as this book implies. If he was, what then? Does he speak to his father about what had happened, warn him of something that might not happen anyway; it had been over a decade, he had no idea where this man and his brother had gone. It wasn’t as if Thedas hadn’t enough problems already, and he didn’t come to Skyhold to cause issue.

The other Wardens were resting with their horses, letting them drink from a small stream and picking clumps of soil from their shoes. Andrastopher tended to the three mounts that were without riders, the wounds of their absence were still too raw. He seemed more adjusted to it, or perhaps it was face, he couldn’t crumple in grievance and still stand at the head of an army. There was no use in letting the borrowed horses die just because they didn’t carry someone. It was a trait that Lei admired in the old man, he was extremely resourceful and found a possible use in everything.

Lei had picked through some rations of dried meats and cheeses; the Twelve Shields had also sold them breads and two jars of honey from the innkeeper’s personal stash. It reminded him of the fruit jams that his clan made, stolen sugars and fresh berries boiled down into a thick paste. He hadn’t asked for any, but Dian had given him bread and honey and had moaned at the how sweet it was. That too had reminded her of home. For all that dwarves had limited food stocks, their culinary expertise was second to none.

She was a good friend, for all that they had only known each other a couple of weeks, there was amicability between them all. The Warden Commander had mentioned such a thing when he had confronted him on the night of the Joining; the ritual would bond them as a group forever, Lei should be thankful he had someone to talk with about it. The Joining was a ritual that held cataclysmic effect, something everybody in those uniform blues had endured.

At the time it had confused Lei, he couldn’t decipher whether it was a threat or something else entirely. But Andrastopher had explained. One man, a thief named Daveth, had fallen after drinking; the other, a knight named Ser Jory, had tried to fight his way out of the ritual and had died doing so. A locket was produced from under his tunic, Lei could see three thin chains hanging around his neck, but he only showed one. Upon the end was a small glass vial, filled with blood, much like the one they had received when they had all awoken from the Joining, though it was worn down and scratched through years of wear. ‘ _A reminder of the strength of a gutter rat and criminal, and the cowardice of a man who promised to defend our homes.’_ That’s what he had said, and Lei could only think of how Colt had run, and how swift Andrastopher’s arrow had been.

But there had been more to it than solely that. Gutter rats and criminals, that’s who the Grey Wardens were; the worst to fight the worst. It explained why Andrastopher treated them no different than any other, it didn’t matter who you were when you would be fighting in a tainted cesspit. If Lei was any other kind of man he’d expect something for his heritage, he was the son of the Herald of Andraste, but Andrastopher made him work just as hard as the others. He didn’t coddle, and he cared in his own way though nobody had managed to figure out exactly how he did such.

Lei absentmindedly stroked the necklace under his own tunic, wondering how he may see those who had undergone the Joining with him; and in turn how they would see him. He remembers Lawrence grappling for comfort, or safety, anything to keep him from harm; he remembers the tenderness in which Andrastopher carried Annelise to her bedroll, and the strength in which he held Lawrence in his final moments. The others, he hadn’t seen them, but he had noticed that Xanthe was missing. Andrastopher had kept her Woeful Dirge; it would be sent to Xanthe’s closest relative, and if there was nobody waiting for her then it would be hung with the memories of the rest of the Grey Wardens. Lei didn’t know what that meant either. Andrastopher told him it was something to see for another day, there was far more for him to learn, and some of it was heavier than most.

“Didn’t know you could draw.” Annelise drops down beside him, wiping her hands on her breeches and leaning over his shoulder. “Still don’t.” She snorts, trying to grab at the scrap he had drawn on. It pulls him from his daydream, and memories of pyres and blood. He hadn’t heard her approach, and he wonders if they’ve all been waiting for him. A quick glance to the group tells him they’re still going about their business; they’ve only two days of travel ahead of them until they reach Amaranthine and they’re taking it slow.

“Funny.” He huffs, folding the vellum and pushing it into his pack. It was best that others didn’t see; not out of fear that they might recognise him, for the drawing was so awful that nobody should. But because Lei didn’t want anyone to know that he might personally know something of a tyrannical figure of elven history. Simply carrying the tome brought a nervousness to brew in his gut. He had no reason to have it, and it wasn’t exactly his to take in the first place. He should have left it at Skyhold, he should have put it back upon the ramparts.

“Who’s it meant to be?” She leans back with a raised brow, giving the man some space as he tightens his shoulders. He was embarrassed, even Annelise could see that; the man was so obviously outgoing as much as he was a leader. But, she supposed, she could understand that. Her own family was noble, and she’d run away as a youth; she didn’t like the lavish parties and the tight dresses, no, Annelise was made for fighting in mud and sweat, biting off ears and bleeding in the dirt. She wasn’t a Lady, no more than Lei was a Lord.

“Someone I knew years ago.” He takes the drawing back out, now smudged from such rough treatment, and offers it to her with a shrug. He’d toss the thing into the fire they made later, but he would keep it for now.

“What’s their name?” She asks, squinting at the page. Lei laughs softly at how she doesn’t guess at the person’s gender, it’s more of a blob than anything else; he can’t blame her for not knowing.

“Iska? Aisha? I can’t remember exactly.” He scratches his jaw awkwardly, wondering how much he should say. But he trusted Annelise, she was a strong warrior, and even if her jests were dirty and sour there was something about her he was quite fond of. “Him and his brother, they saved my life.” He glances away gracelessly, hoping she doesn’t ask how they helped him.

Lei can remember screeching darkspawn, a group of them had spotted him. He’d panicked at the sight of the monsters, running in any direction through bushels and undergrowth. With leaves and branches whipping at his face with his hair matted to his cheeks and neck. Four sets of tainted armour chasing him. The heavy smack of metal on metal, swords unsheathed, screaming as they ran him down. A wolf had appeared then, at the time he thought it one of Andruil’s beasts, but it’s eyes were alit with moonlight, swathes of black fur and claws inches long. He could smell the magic on it. The beast had turned to him with snarling lips, a fresh and bloodied wound crossing through his maw.

Then the Mirtha’ghila had appeared, fire burning a dark blue beside him upon a staff topped by a sconce made of ribs. The darkspawn were dead, and the elf’s brother had pulled him to his feet and offered him safety for the night. Lei had been quite frightened of the wolf and had spent the entire night staring at it. The fur wasn’t entirely black; when the smell of magic left them, upon the wolf’s back were circles of pure white. The twin, Teran, Dira, Lei can’t remember his name either, had spoken of illusion magic to keep them dark under the night. The white patches were past attempts of magic upon his skin that had clearly failed in their intentions.

They had spoken to him about it after a few days of travelling, once Lei had gotten more comfortable with the beast and the towering Revenant; the werewolf was once a man, and they wished to cure the curse that had locked away his soul. The Mirtha’ghila told him of another man who suffered loss of family and cursed the humans who had hurt them, only the curse grew out of control and now others suffered unnecessarily. Nobody had tried to cure them, so they would be the first. Da’fen was the wolf’s name, Lei could remember that for it was simple Dalish; meaning _little wolf,_ though to him the beast was monstrously huge. Lei had told them of transformation magic, the art of shapeshifting.

“Well I wouldn’t have saved your life if you were going to draw _me_ like that.” She snorts, waving the vellum in his face to distract him from memories, and passing it back. “Ask the boss, I’ve seen his diaries.” She whispers the words, her brows raised. Lei raises one in return; he wouldn’t advise snooping in Andrastopher’s things. Though a curiosity embeds inside of him, what exactly would the Warden Commander be writing about?

“He can’t draw someone who’s memory I hold.” Lei says, folding it once more and pushing it into his pack.

“Just tell him what he looks like, dung-brain.” Annelise jabs him in the shoulder and laughs, Lei can’t help but join in as well. “Fancy scar on his face, big nose, that valley-sin stuff.” He’s almost amazed at what she could decipher from the image, it was a crude child’s drawing at best.

“Vallaslin.” He corrects.

“Dian told me you was Dalish.” She says, her laughter dying to a strained joy. “Said you were a Mi’Durgen.” Her words are almost anxious, and she chews visibly on her tongue at them, fingers of her right hand gracing the once severed of her left.

“I am.” He says the words with strength that he cannot find in his lungs.

“Glad you’re not like them, they’re brutal.”

“What?” Lei turns to her swiftly, thick brows pinched together; how did she know of them? His clan were secretive, they lived in thick undergrowth and heavy forest, and when they went out to exact punishment on the humans it was not something lightly planned. With an absent thought it’s a miracle that his father even survived long enough to sire him.

“I saw them go through a small farming village once, we were planning on sacking it, ran when we saw how they carved through the villagers.” She remembers the blood spilled, the sight of those swift elves clad in runic bones and thick leathers. “Put heads on pitchforks, built and burnt a pyre but didn’t use any bodies, clear frightened the shit out of me.” Annelise hadn’t stayed around for long. The sight had been captivating, like a macabre dance. Elves wielding magic without staves, daggers glinting with the blaze. They hadn’t any bows nor arrows, she’d no doubt she’d have been shot dead if they had.

“How did you know it was clan Mi’Durgen?” He asks, almost fearing the answer. His clan were not the kindest by anyone’s assumption, and he remembers that raid. Lei wasn’t there, he hadn’t never been invited to such things. But he had heard the whispers. One of their own had been taken, a young man named Ythllenwharyn; the shemlen had killed him and they returned the favour by the dozen.  

“Lefty, he’d seen them before, recognised a few of them.” Annelise explains, hands wringing almost nervously before she stops herself. “He said they rose up from the ground like vipers, he thought they were dwarves for their height, but he heard their Dalish calls, said he ran like a fire was lit under his arse.” She glances at Lei, and his frame of six foot and higher, and it didn’t sing of the elves who could barely grace four. He looked more like the Herald of Andraste than any of those Mi’Durgens she once saw.

“I don’t know what you want me to say.” Lei shrugs. He cannot absolve his clan’s actions, nor can he condemn or praise them. Ythllenwharyn was avenged, but his clan had bragged of defenceless shemlen children, and how their own were taught how to fight in their third year. He didn’t have pride in being from one of the most brutal clans, and he has met many others from various clans who have nothing but kindness in them. There’s a wonder in him as to why his family was so twisted and cruel.

“Me neither.” She shrugs, feeling the conversation take a turn into a heavy silence. Annelise stands and brushes off her breeches, pulling down the hem of her jerkin where it had ridden up, and stretching her shoulders until they popped. “The boss said you didn’t want me waking up alone, after the big drink. You’ve got my thanks for that, I meant to say earlier but you were too busy barging in on me naked.” She slaps him over the side of the head gently, laughing to ease the tension that brews in her lungs.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to, it was an accident, I mean.” Lei falls over his words, he truly hadn’t meant to, he had knocked and everything. His face begins to burn, and he feels his own fingers scratching at the new hair upon his jaw.

“Return the favour aye?” She offers him a wink and walks away; leaving Lei’s face to scorch brighter and his fingers to still upon his cheek. That was far too forward to assume it was anything but exactly what it was. Lei pulls out the glass vial held against his chest and holds it up in the light; exactly how close did the Joining make them?

Kina waves him over, they’re all ready to leave, and he hastily packs his things away and throws the satchel over his shoulders. They would ride as late as they could tonight, and by tomorrow they would be in Amaranthine, and a bed full of feathers would grant them a willing respite. Andrastopher calls out to them, counting heads swiftly, before setting his horse to a quick trot. They’d need to find a place to camp before nightfall, away from the main roads so as not to draw unwanted attention. Annelise throws him a wink from where she rides beside Andrastopher, and he can’t help the shuddering smile that brews upon his anxiety.

Lizette’s dresses had been made swiftly, as they always had been. Coin could buy time easily enough, and she needed to start making waves in the sea of Sisters. She had spoken outwardly of how she might change the chantry if she was in charge, and bashfully denied them when they asked of her intentions of becoming Divine. She had planted those seeds in several minds, and she had heard the rumours of Goddard assisting in her ascension. There was little doubt he wouldn’t help her, after all, she had been waiting for almost seven decades. How could he refuse his own sister? Who better to lead the chantry than someone such as her, someone with the same blood as the Herald of Andraste; she was just as deific as him if not more so.

She stared down at Lady Pentaghast as she trained in the courtyard, sweating through her tunic and baring teeth and against her opponent like some sort of animal. Lizette had no respect for women who took up the sword, she believed that it was not their place to do so; such were the words of her father, so deeply ingrained in her mind. The only women who needed to fight were those not rich nor powerful enough to maintain and healthy and loyal set of guardsmen. Without those? It was likely they had little to defend, and only wished to play at a life made for their betters.

 It might be that Lady Pentaghast would wish to resume her place as Hand of the Divine, she was a good soldier, but not one fitted to such a position. Perhaps that is why Divine Justinia had died, a severed hand is of no use at all. No, she thinks, Divine Justinia’s hands had let her die at the hands of an abomination; she would not have those two women under her command.

Lizette shifted as she stood upon the balcony, wondering why Goddard had allowed a mage to have such a wonderful room in Skyhold. The woman, Madame de Fer, was off to one side staking her claim on such an area and scratching away neatly at piles of vellum. Lizette and Hollis had simply walked passed to gaze out upon the courtyards; it was a nice fortress, if not unnecessarily posturing. The name, Skyhold, she would have changed it the moment she claimed it as her own. To what, she wondered, it would have to be something bold, something to inspire the faithful and to frighten her enemies. She would think on it as the time passes, perhaps she could make it a homage to her late father.

She had seen Goddard many times with Madame de Fer, it was clear that they were close; and often she had wondered how close exactly. If there was more to it than what it seemed, she had no problem with mentioning it should things not go her own way. It would certainly wipe the smile of off his wife’s chubby face. Lizette tries not to inhale so deeply, the mountain air might be fresh but the people who were housed here were not. The thought of outsmarting Yetta brings a twitch of a smile to her thin lips, but she wills it away. Lizette would not give away her plans so foolishly.

“The red looks delectable upon you, my dear.” Hollis said from beside her. His hands were folded behind his back and he rocked back and forth on the heels of his boots. Often he glanced behind at Madame de Fer; for a moment. Lizette thought he was afraid of her, which he most probably was, though the way her outfit split open over the centre of her chest was hardly something unseen. Such was the fashion of those dreadful Orlesians. She was beautiful, Lizette could not deny that, but she knew that magic was her ugliness within. Nobody wanted a painted egg if it was only rotten on the inside.

“Doesn’t it just?” She held her head high, as if she was puffing out her own chest. Though there was little reason to, she and Hollis hadn’t had intimacies in years; it was hardly something she grieved over. “I spent long hours speaking with the Mothers, they seem rather taken with my possible ascension to Divine.” Lizette says it boldly, unafraid of eavesdroppers. It would have to be a swift action, the chantry had been without leadership in two years, and she would easily pull them all back in line. Too long had mages run rife in Thedas, and they would all be punished for going against the will of the Maker.

“Will they put your name forward? I would definitely give you my support.” His chin wobbles with his eagerness and he steps just that bit closer, hands now wringing in front of him. He takes a second to glance back at Madame de Fer, his voice lower now as if to exclude her from their conversation. It would have been polite for the mage to move when her betters were around, and Lizette wouldn’t stoop so low as to ask her to leave. It gave them an impasse which seemed only to be in Lizette’s own mind; this only served to irritate her more. She was ignoring Madame de Fer, but she needed her to know she was.

She wasn’t so foolish as to believe Madame de Fer didn’t have influence; holding the title of Imperial Enchanter was something of a jesting label, but a title all the same. Now it was held by an elf, or two if the rumours were to be listened to, and she could think of little worse. Goddard certainly seemed taken with her, though she could not fathom why, unless he was the same as all men and gazed at her with sparks of lust. Mistresses were all the same, and Lizette proudly reminded herself that she retained her dignity unlike those others. So, she knew that if the mage would talk of her ascension, whether it was through vile barbs or wisps of excitement, it would get the word out easily enough.

Perhaps she would write of it, to allies in Orlais, a chance for her to even write to the Emperor of such ideals. She knew of her brother’s friendship with Emperor Gaspard, and she dearly hoped it was naught more than that. Rumours had spread of how the two men had danced in Halamshiral, and Lizette had felt ill at the thought of such. She would never, could never, stoop so low as to present herself as a trussed-up whore for power. The mere thought it sickening. Though, she would write to Gaspard for favour, to allude that Goddard intends to help her. If the Emperor chose to assume, then that would be on his own shoulders. She still scans the courtyards below, trying to find her Goddard’s bastard son; she should have scooped him up before that barbaric Grey Warden stuck his talons in.

“I believe so, I’m to broach the subject with my brother in a few days’ time.” Lizette says it quieter this time, her vision still fixed on the people milling about below. She could imagine owning something like this herself, the Divine should have the best if she was to speak the true word of the Maker. Goddard would give her his army, she knew he would without doubt, and she knew she may need it to perform an Exalted March.

“He couldn’t not support you, my darling.” Hollis bumbles beside her, a red-faced grin and a slight shiver in his frame. The winds were stronger up here, much colder, though her clothes were thick and heavy upon her frame. He hadn’t received any new clothes from the tailors, Lizette hadn’t thought he needed any. Hollis would no doubt be returning home soon, and she would be taking her seat upon the sunburst throne.

“Things may change as I become Divine, our marriage, Hollis, it may be wise to split for when I take over the chantry.” She spares him a glance, and then returns to watching the people below. It was a harsh decision, she knew that, to divide their marriage. But it was a sacrifice she was willing to take. It was simply something it is, she couldn’t change how she would face restrictions at first, but she would alter them in time. She knew she had to devote herself entirely to the Maker, and she would be rewarded for such things. Their children were old enough to understand it entirely, perhaps not her grandchildren, but they would soon be brought into the fold. For once in her life, she might be able to outshine her irritating older brother. The Herald of Andraste was naught more than a sword in the Maker’s hand. But the Divine, she was the lips, the tongue, the lungs, the teeth; she was the blessed words of a deity.

“My dearest I could never leave you.” Hollis whispers. His hand outstretches to try and reach for her, but a swift look from his wife and it is folded neatly back with the other.

“It would be for the best, I have requested a room for you to sleep in, as it is unwise to stay together for now.” Lizette says tonelessly; it doesn’t break her heart as she had expected it to. “I’m sure a maid can help you to your room.” The words are intended to hurt him slightly, perhaps to make the break easier, but Hollis seems impervious to her barbs. He had made eyes at several women other than her; never had he gotten so far as to have an affair. That was something she would never stand for, and they both knew he clung to his Trevelyan relationship more than his once Trevelyan wife.

“Of course, my love, anything for you.” He says the sadness in his voice barely there but entirely too noticeable. A bow is offered, and he stumbles slightly as he leaves, a hand held up in apology to Madame de Fer as he passes her.

Lizette takes a step forward, gloved hands resting on the balcony railing for a moment. She inhales deeply, hiding her wince at the smell, and imagining this fortress as her own. Wars like this, they do not last forever, and without war Goddard had no need to own such a castle. But as Divine, she would need somewhere like this. Perhaps, she wonders, when the war is over Goddard would have too many enemies; and it would be so easy to give one of them a dagger to use. Her first attempt had failed, hiring such a useless man when all he had needed to do was to knock him off his horse and see him dead. But her second, that would go smoothly, and as Divine she would inherit such a deserving castle. It was only a matter of time, and Lizette could wait a few years longer.

A hum escapes from her throat as the thoughts take a place in her mind. _Herald’s Demise_ , she wonders, that would be a fitting name for such a place, or perhaps _Herald’s Fall_. It is rather a long way down, and though the wildlife was few the jagged rocks and tumbling landscape was plenty.

Hollis’ new room was hardly as lavish as the one he had shared with his wife. The term in his mind seemed so strange now, and he wonders whether it is best to distance himself now or to hold out hope their relationship was not entirely severed. For when she became Divine, could she not simply change the rules which bound her? Perhaps this was simply a move that needed to be made, before he could regain his proper place as her husband. Or, he wonders, should he see this as a blessing hidden amongst his sorrow. Without his wife, he need not hide his dalliances. Many women would be thrilled to become an Unberge, a family deep in coin from merchant doings.

His new room was cast in simpler colours, made for a lord of a lesser standing. It was smaller than the one he had shared with Lizette, nothing cast in bright whites nor golds, only dark wood carved plainly. Even the bathing tub was sat in the corner of the room, surrounded by a partition that could be folded away to the wall; it hardly belied the decency he needed. Even now his clothes could not fit the wardrobes provided. It feels as if it should be insulting, but the lack of criticisms from his wife seems to make the room that much more appealing to him.

The bed complains loudly as he sits upon it, and he ponders how he might regain his power if Lizette truly intends on abandoning him. Goddard, of course, his brother-by-law. That man had a heart made of gold and Hollis would carve it from his chest if he had the chance, but perhaps not just yet. If he could gain Goddard’s friendship, even under the disguise of winning support for Lizette, it would be a move well played. Hollis had rarely said a bad word about the man, only in private to convince his wife that he hated him as much as she did. Friends in high places were not easy to find, and the late Aaric Trevelyan had been eager to entwine their lineages. A smart man, Hollis thinks, no doubt his heir would be too.

Though, he thinks nervously, there was that awful business some twenty years ago. Hollis didn’t have much to do with that, only he had seen her letters, the coin she had borrowed from the Trevelyan coffers under his name. It hadn’t anything to do with him. But he had figured it out, no matter how stupid she assumed him to be, there was only a few things which could cost so much coin. Hollis hadn’t found any evidence of her spending the coin on their stalls or shops, nor anywhere else. Which meant it could have only been an assassination, and it was only a few weeks before Goddard had been declared missing from his post. It hadn’t been too hard to put that and the other misfortunes of her brothers into their history, coin spent, and an accident arranged. It had worried him at first, how easily she had gotten away with it; how easily she could get away with arranging an accident for him. Hollis renders himself grateful she means only to separate from him, and not to separate him from his own life.  

Though whatever she might be planning, it was obvious that she would not allow Hollis to know of it. Lizette must know that she could trust him entirely, he had never done anything to wrong her, never done anything that could spoil anything she had wished for. He had been nothing but loving and supporting. The bed creaks again under his weight. He decides he’ll have a meeting with Goddard, to speak over a nice bottle of whiskey and try to make friends with the man. They were of a similar age and standing; perhaps he hadn’t the war experience, but not everyone had the knees for such an exhausting task.

Caldwell grunts as the sparring staff comes heavy down upon his shoulder; training was something he thought he had been improving with, but this sparring match did nothing to ease his opinions. Lethandyl and a few others had joined late into the group, but it didn’t seem that she lacked any experience in fighting. Captain Rickan had paired her up with Caldwell without a thought, and she’d already thrown him on his arse several times already. He was beginning to think the man had a problem with elves, and he wasn’t exactly sure who he would have to complain to about that. He’d spent the last three days training with her; Rats had paired off with Arah, Mitch had been paired up with a young lad barely in his twenties, and Garron wasn’t even here. He missed the Stark, and they’d ended on a tense note the last they spoke.

He half thought that Garron was avoiding him, but it wasn’t like the Stark to hide in the shadows; even if he did, anyone would be able to hear him in them. Caldwell knows he should thank him and Rats, they’d helped him see through that man’s lies. Though the wound remained raw and bloodied, the things they had done. The memory of the man trying to tell him something itched at the back of his skull, but there was no sense in hearing out a liar. Those lips served nothing but tales. He’d rather see Garron again than hear anything from that man’s lips; he promises himself that he’d ask around later today.

Another heavy smack catches him in the ribs, and he stumbles to one side with his defence broken. Lethandyl jabs at him again, mockery in her thrust, and then waits for him to regain his stance. She had far more skill than he did. Pairing them together wasn’t exactly fair, neither of them gained anything from this. Captain Rickan must just want to be awkward again, he had told him of his potential; but there was being trained and being stupid. Caldwell felt very much the latter. Losing wasn’t something that gave him confidence in his ability, he wanted to win and he wanted to win fairly.

The woman was Dalish, the vallaslin of Andruil in red across her face and reaching down beyond her neck. It scrawled the length of her arms and dashed across her weather worn feet, lined the inside of her palms and graced her scalp. From far away it looked as if she were streaked in blood, but that was fitting for someone who devoted themselves to the Goddess of the Hunt. She needn’t have all of those tattoos upon herself to show her skill, but such was the way of the Dalish, and it made Caldwell feel absurdly naked beside her. Lethandyl had no qualms in mocking him for it either.

“Come on, Da’len, that one was easy.” She laughs, a hand scraping back through the shorn hair upon her scalp. Lethandyl turns the staff in hand, rotating it either side of herself before settling back into an offensive stance.

“You were going left.” He huffs, wincing as he squeezes his shoulder. The staff was a nimble thing in her hands, as if it was an extension of herself and not a pole of wood. Caldwell already felt bruises beginning to line his skin where she had already hit him several times, and she didn’t even seem to have broken into a sweat. Why she was here training didn’t make much sense in his mind, she should already be out there fighting the red templars, winning the war for cowards like him.

“And then I didn’t, your opponent’s not going to shout out how they move.” Lethandyl snorts, her staff poised and ready, swiping in heavily from the right. Caldwell doesn’t react but rather lets it crack upon his shoulder, he yelps at the attack; though he hadn’t done anything to defend himself. The bruise will come swiftly, but his skin is still mottled with colours from injuries days past.

“I prefer training with Stark.” He sighs, rubbing at yet another bruise. Rats had told him that she hadn’t seen him either, and Mitch and Arah had just shrugged it away. They assumed he’d gone back to cutting wood or had ended up in the wrong woman’s bed. Caldwell seemed to be the only one who was truly worried about the missing man.

“You won’t when you’re dead,” She snaps, a few steps forward and she’s got the tip of his nose an inch away from Caldwell’s, “you think I like training with a child?” She hisses, jabbing him in the chest with a tattooed finger.

“I’m almost thirty.”

“And still a child, barefaced and shoe-footed.” Lethandyl says. “Malum tel’halani, Da’len, din a ma garas hir en sa’sahl assan.” She says it with contempt, a spirit of mocking laughter rising in her chest. The words coil in Caldwell’s gut, he had not heard such words in years, but the wounds they create remain the same. _Tel’halani Geldwyl_ ; helpless Geldwyl, words too often said both to him and about him. To claim he would be the first to fall, and to do so outside of battle, this was exactly why he endured such training. Caldwell, Geldwyl, whatever name he wished for, he was not helpless any longer, and he would not stand for slander nor insult.

“Malum tel’mirthadal.” He curses, air rushing from flared nostrils at her words. How dare she say such things? Lethandyl barely knew him, she did not know of his trials, nor anything he had endured.

“Mirtha na'a shemlen. Mirtha na _din_.” She spits. Caldwell can see the tension in her jaw, the way the strings in her neck pop from the surface, the twitch in her brows. He lets out a mighty roar, the end of his staff coming up to smack against the side of Lethandyl’s head. In his mind it would have knocked her out, he’d stand victorious over one who had insulted him as such. It would be a heroic blow that would bring him confidence over all others.

But it was not meant to be. Lethandyl catches the staff upon her own, twisting it in such a way that it was wrought from his grip and was flung into the sodden snow beyond his booted feet. She is no less furious, and she shoves passed Caldwell, abandoning her training, and leaving him standing on his own with various sets of onlooking eyes. Captain Rickan shakes his head from afar and indicates for him to leave for the day. It makes him feel more useless than before, and he sulks as he puts the training staffs away.

The only good thing to come of his training is that he hasn’t any work for the next few hours. A rare enough thing, but he would use it to search for his missing friend. The tavern, he thinks, might be a good place to start. Garron was a bard after all, and even if people didn’t like him as much as Maryden, he could still gather a heavy purse by the end of the night.

Caldwell ignores it when he sees the unnamed blonde man he once adored sitting in the corner. He looks awfully in love, with a grin of iron glinting from the sunlight streaming through, pale eyes sparking wet with laughter, long fingers curled and clutching at Thom’s padded coat. Caldwell looks away and berates himself for how little he was able to ignore him, despite how he tried. There was little between them, he knew that, but it didn’t make the ache any less painful. That man had lied to him, that man had lied to countless others. Perhaps even now he might lie to Thom about who he was. Caldwell didn’t think himself spiteful enough to ruin that, but it didn’t stop him from wishing they would crash and burn. Cabot hadn’t seen anything of the Stark, and it gives Caldwell a reason to flee the tavern quickly enough before he is seen.

He traipses from one area to another, checking all of Garron’s usual haunts, asking after the man to see if anyone had seen him. Nothing turns up. He hasn’t even borrowed an axe to throw from the blacksmith, not that he’d be allowed after breaking the other one. The man remarks he hasn’t seen him since, and when Caldwell thinks about it, neither has he. Which means he’s been missing for an entire week now, and nobody has seen him anywhere. He feels a bit awkward for having spent the last few hours desperately trying to find his absent friend, and only just now figuring out that the situation may be far worse than he knew.

Of course, he thinks, he could be worrying about nothing. Garron could have simply left Skyhold to return home; or he could have been eaten by that werewolf that still roams the mountainside. The thought is unpleasant enough to make his guts squirm. He’ll redouble his efforts regardless. A message to Leliana might help him along, if a member of the Inquisition was missing, no matter how small their role is, it deserved to be investigated. Garron deserved to be found.

Goddard had cut the meeting with the Marquis short in order to see Vivienne before they both retired for the night. It had been draining to listen to him wittering on about the politics of Orlais and how that might affect how the chantry is rebuilt, and trying to gather some information on the imperial wedding at the same time. Goddard had received his official invitation some days ago, addressed neatly to him and his wife, and also one to invite several high-ranking members of the Inquisition. The letter had filled him with a drowning guilt, and he’d have no doubt that he’d be arriving days or even weeks earlier to sort things out with the Baroulxs. But, of course, there were few he could speak to of such things; Vivienne was not one of them.

She had sent a scout in passing to find him and ask to see him later in the evening, imperative, she had called it, though she hadn’t expressed severe urgency even if the scout had implied as such. Whatever it may be, it took Goddard out of the company of that dreadful Marquis. He had no doubt there would be many more like him. As the months wore on and Gaspard kept his intended out of sight, it gave Thedas a curiosity that could not be sated. It was a strong move in the grand game, and not only that, but it gave people something to think about; something other than the war and the sky that had split in two. He’d thank the Emperor if he didn’t think Gaspard was enjoying it far too much.

Vivienne’s room was grand, built and decorated for someone of her standing. She had even had it changed over time to suit the fashions of Orlais and to mimic the comforts of home. Goddard had always admired her taste, it seemed so much more than the dullness of Ostwick’s fashion; though he could scarcely redecorate to the Orlesian standard without people digging up the past and making pointed mentions of Florent. Everything was a misstep as well as a perfectly executed flourish, it only depended upon who was watching.

It was rare that he was in her personal space, both of them knew what rumours it would lead to. Now, after Bastien’s death, no doubt people would be out in droves digging for the slightest bit of infidelity from the Herald of Andraste. People had seen her gift of a golden ring, decorated brilliantly and encrusted with tasteful gemstones, and how Goddard wore it around the width of his slightly crooked thumb. Though he had many rings, and few fingers could be seen unadorned. He had made sure not to try and hide how he made his way to the bedchambers of Madame de Fer, disguising it would only add reason to rumour. With the recent revelation of Lei and his affair two decades ago, people would grasp at anything they could.

Vivienne was still dressed impeccably and didn’t look the slightest bit tired even though the sun had long since set. Goddard, however, felt the day digging into his lower back, and he yearned to crawl into bed beside his wife and sleep through tomorrow morning. She greets him with a smile and an offering of a seat, and he knows the warmth of his bed must wait for a while longer.

“Would you like a drink, my dear?” Vivienne asks it out of politeness, waiting for an answer, merely a shake of his head, before she takes a seat opposite him. Goddard knows if he starts to drink now it’ll keep him awake for longer than need be; he only hopes that Vivienne’s information can be received quickly. Meeting Madame de Fer in her chambers was one rumour, falling asleep in them could only breed several more. She would wake him, and the embarrassment would be forgotten and forgiven; he was old, and nobody would forget that any time soon.

“There was something you needed to tell me?” Goddard leans forward to incline her closer, should it need to be more private; there was no way of telling who might be listening to their conversations. Even now he worried about Leliana’s scouts, never before had he ever taken notice of how many there actually were. With his crumbling trust in her a paranoia began to coil inside of him, no doubt someone would begin to notice how uncomfortable he was, and then there would be questions and sore answers. Until then he would carry on as best as he could and pray that the war might be won before irreversible injury is caused.

“I’ve no doubt you’ve already been told, my dear, but I do believe your sister is hoping to become Divine.” She says it clearly, a mask upon her face to hide her true emotions. Vivienne doesn’t want him to know exactly what she is thinking; she knows Lizette has no chance of becoming Divine, but the woman was still his sister. It would be a shame to see Goddard falling to family to inherit something unworthy without truly consulting every other option he had.

“What? Of course not,” Goddard laughs softly, reclining back where he sits, “why would Lizette wish for such a thing?” His mirth dwindles when he sees how serious she is. Lizette couldn’t want for a position such as that, it was far too demanding, and so many people would protest it; a Trevelyan as the Herald and a Trevelyan as Divine? People wouldn’t stand for it. They would call them fraudulent, grasping for power, lying about their holy status, falsifying and insulting the Maker himself. The thought hurts Goddard more than he had thought it would. The words that the so-called spirit of Divine Justinia spoke, of how it was her who had chosen him and not Andraste. He was no herald, he was not selected from all others, this Anchor was no boon.

“Many do so, you remember the squabbles and arguments about it when all this began.” Vivienne says, her sculpted eyebrows raising only the slightest bit.

“Yes but, Divine Justinia was,” His words fail him, and her death still weighs heavy on his soul, “Lizette wouldn’t stand a chance in that position, she’s hardly religious either.” Goddard shakes his head, trying to imagine his sister as the highest-ranking member of the chantry. She had never been so interested in faith before, despite what she had always claimed, her heart had never been in it. He knew people expressed faith in their own way, but from what he had seen, Lizette took no curiosity in it at all.

“My dear, being Divine is not solely about faith, though it is something one must have. It is about power, and those who strive for it want to be able to speak with the words of the Maker. Though, those people are fools.” Vivienne says it with a sharp flourish, making sure to drive her point into Goddard. No matter what Lizette did, she was either branded a mad woman or an idiot; neither of which Goddard would wish to label his only sister as.

“The belief of owning divine power is something utterly consuming, I know that myself.” Goddard raises his brows in a twitch, scratching at his jaw and hoping for the conversation to move swiftly on.

“Darling, whatever chose you, whether it was Justinia or an amalgamation of spirits imbibed with the Maker’s intention, they chose entirely too well.” Vivienne says it softly, but her words echo with strength. “You were the only one who looked for her after her extended absence, perhaps the Maker made you choose yourself.”

“Indeed.” He sighs, attempting something of a smile but looking more pitiful than anything else. “But I’ve taken us from our path, do you truly believe Lizette wishes to be Divine?” He clears his throat and forces the conversation back to his sister. If Vivienne was telling the truth, then Goddard truly needed to stop her. She was his sister, yes, and he would love her eternally for the bond they share as siblings; but, Maker, he would not give her support to gain the sunburst throne. It was a foolish move, and Goddard respected the chantry and Divine Justinia too much to have it all return to ruin. Lizette wouldn’t work for the people, she never had.

“I heard her speaking of it with her husband, I only thought to tell you to give you the opportunity to support or to deny her.” Vivienne offers a sympathetic smile, hoping her words will persuade Goddard should he be undecided. “Family problems are better held within the confines of one’s home and not upon the sunburst throne.” She adds. The knowledge that Lizette had ended her marriage was held upon her tongue, that wasn’t any of her business; she didn’t know whether she was using this as an excuse to separate from her husband, or simply planning for a future, that may never come to pass, prematurely.

“I’ll have words, of everything that is happening right now, I would be happy with fewer logs upon the pyre.” Goddard says, rubbing a hand over his face and pinching his temples; things could be worse, he tells himself.

“My dear, this implies you’re already dead, and we shan’t have that.” Laughter escapes from her as she speaks, trying to turn the conversation just that bit lighter. Vivienne had no doubt that Goddard was one of the strongest men she had the pleasure of knowing. Many had suffered, there was little reason to compare ails, but Goddard had stood tall under a crushing weight; she knew there were few who could take the strain he had for the past few years.

“Perhaps a stake would have been a better metaphor, though whether I choke or burn isn’t up to me.” He shrugs, a hand running back through his hair. It was getting unruly and he needed it trimming, lest he walk around with a bushel of grey curls upon his head. “I apologise for how grim I am tonight, tomorrow will be a better day I believe. Sleep well, Lady Vivienne.”

“And the same to you, my dear.” Vivienne stands with him, and they kiss each other on the cheek as they bid farewell. He offers as bow as he closes the door behind him, trying not to look miserable at the knowledge he had just received. It made sense as to why Josephine had told him that Hollis wished to speak with him for a moment; he hadn’t wanted to, he and Hollis had never gotten on all that well, but it was obvious now that he merely wished to push his wife’s cause.

He wouldn’t support it, he couldn’t even if he had wanted to. Goddard had already put Vivienne ahead as Divine and straying from that would help nobody. They had spoken over things in detail, the steps forward to take, how to make things better for everyone, how to fix the chantry that had been misshapen under prejudice and fools clutching for power and glory. He could only hope that what they thought was right, was right for everyone. It would take time, many, many years, but it would be done. To create safer places for mages, to give Templars a safer way to retirement, to create peace with the Dalish, to give the elves a better life; some would call Goddard an idealist and an imbecile for believing in such a future, but if not him then who?

Vivienne believed in the same things, and Vivienne was a woman he could trust. As much as he admired Cassandra and everything she had done, there was still so much unfinished with her, she couldn’t turn away from the Seekers knowing what she now knew. Leliana remained out of the question. Goddard still believed her too cruel for such a loving job, and he wouldn’t put forward someone that he didn’t have any faith in what so ever.

Yetta is asleep by the time he returns to his room, and he sags behind his desk, a pile of letters to keep him company. He pulls his rings off one by one, laying them gently in their velvet inlays of his jewellery box, pulling out the one he had kept for several decades. A chevalier’s ring. It had been something given off-hand, a testament of love between them. Goddard had floundered at the time, unable to give the man anything in return. But Florent had slipped it onto his little finger, for it was too small for all the rest, and had kissed his knuckles with a beaming grin. He’s glad to still have the ring. It didn’t matter that it was something given to every chevalier, it only mattered that it was Florent who had given it to him.

A thought of how different his life may be if he had stayed with Florent, if he could have done something to stop his father from taking the man’s life. He wouldn’t have the grand family that he had now, and he wouldn’t swap them for anything, but he would do a lot to have Florent back alive. If Florent was alive, he could imagine that his current predicament would be so much easier. The worst of it would be an awkward meeting at the imperial wedding.

Goddard decides to ignore the letters for tonight, there wasn’t much he could say coherently so late at night. Josephine would no doubt change everything he had decided to say, and those thoughts spoil in his mind. Everything seemed to trail back to Leliana; she had a hand in anything that happened in Skyhold. He wonders if he’s being paranoid, if everything had simply begun to get on top of him. The fact that they were still struggling to find Corypheus weighed heavily in his gut, and he couldn’t help but the feeling that he’s beginning to fail.

None of it matters at such a late hour; he would drive himself mad trying to fix the world every hour of every day. It was best to crawl into bed, to rest for another set of meetings and greetings and dealings with nobility. A smile spreads upon his lips; would it be improper to spend the day in bed? He could claim issue with his arm, still bound in cast as it was. Only that would bring healers and several more meetings that he had no intention of seeing through. Goddard sighs as he changes into a night robe, pulling back the covers and slipping in beside his wife. She turns over with a smile, throwing her arm over his chest and settling straight back to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Malum tel’halani, Da’len, din a ma garas hir en sa’sahl assan." : You are helpless, child, the death of you comes before the first arrow.   
> "Malum tel’mirthadal." : You are not honourable.  
> "Mirtha na'a shemlen. Mirtha na din." : Honour is of [the] humans. Honour is death.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!


End file.
